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“What were they thinking when they weren’t thinking?” 

They. Those people who didn’t do it. The ones who say it was somebody else. My family.

I tell you this: There is nothing worse than left-over imitation bleu cheese dressing, than left-over imitation bleu cheese dressing in-between your toes.

I was standing at the fridge; beside the opened door and cold glass shelves. Hungry. Minding my own business. Enjoying the quiet of the house. Ken and Kyle were at baseball. Marissa was on her way home. Ahh… What do I want to eat? Nothing on the bottom shelf… nothing on the middle shelf… definitely nothing on the top one either. Well, maybe something on the top one… Left-over take-out from… where? What’s this? I stick my finger onto something brown when, GLOP.

Something cold and thick drops between my toes. Ohhh gross! Why do they do this? Stack left over plastic take-out containers one on top of the other filled with stuff no one is going to eat again. Who did this? Yeah, right. Like anyone is going to fess up. I press the refrigerator shut, but not before leaving the containers without lids still tilting for the next person who opens the door. It is my only revenge.