This week's challenge at still_grrr was "wrath".
According to most of the dictionary definitions I found, wrath could be nicely summarised as "anger, leading to revenge". I decided to focus mostly on the "revenge" bit...
Thanks for going out this evening. I appreciated having you not be around for a while.
But I’ve got one complaint: you left a wet towel in the middle of the floor. I know that you’ve got a lot of very evil things to brood over, now that you’re all soul-having, but could you maybe save up some of the guilt for my messy apartment?
Don’t do it again.
Apologies. In the future, I’ll try not to sully the pristine beauty of your display home.
PS: You left my blood out on the counter this morning, and it went off. Next time you move it out of the way so you can get to the milk, make sure you put it back in again.
Dear Annoying House Guest,
You left your towel on the bathroom floor again. If you cared about towels going back on towel racks half as much as you apparently care about your blood having its own spot next to the mayonnaise, I wouldn’t have come home to a soggy floor.
Cut it out, or I’ll stop buying more Weetabix.
By the way, the landlady’s doing a quick inspection tomorrow. You’ll need to let her in.
Dear Great And Powerful Leaseholder,
The next time you leave a sopping wet towel on my pillow, I’ll bite you.
I got a nasty call from the estate agent today, telling me she had gotten a hysterical call from the landlady. Apparently my door was answered by a british guy, who was naked and dripping wet, and who told her that there weren’t any clean towels left in the apartment, but there was plenty of beer if she wanted one.
You do realise, you idiot, that if I get evicted, you do too?
PS: You owe me a sixpack of Budweiser.
I discovered last night that, if enough food colouring is added to rancid yoghurt, it can look a lot like pigs blood.
I discovered that after I’d already tossed back half of it.
Points for initiative, but be warned: I’m not sure how much bleach I’d need to add to a glass of blood before it could pass for milk, but I’m willing to try.
Where the hell did you put my
PS: I never liked milk that much anyway. Do your worst.
Dear Pretentious Twat,
You can have them back after you return my lighter.
If you hadn’t been threatening to set the curtains on fire, I wouldn’t have seen where you were keeping the lighter anyway.
Now kindly give me back my underwear.
Dear Utter Bastard,
There are four doors that need to be opened if I want to get from the street to my bedroom.
And, oddly enough, all four of them have handles. Which, last night, were coated in garlic.
Coincidentally, my bedroom door, the apartment’s front door, and two of the building’s security doors have apparently been kicked off their hinges. You might want to look into doing some repair work.
Dear Evil Fiend,
I hate your taste in music. Really hate it. And if you keep on setting the cd player to turn on at full volume in the middle of the night, I’ll find your mysteriously vanished lighter, and use it to set fire to your coat.
Dear Important Construction Worker,
Unless you want your shiny new tool set to be traded for smokes, you’ll reconnect the cable before the next episode of Passions.
Dear Soap Opera Addict,
I have three tool sets. You have only one apartment you can watch daytime television in.
Bet I can outlast you.
PS: Dawn called for you. Didn’t say what it was about.
Dear Van Gogh,
Drawing a moustache and glasses on someone who can’t look in a mirror, right before they go out to a demon bar to play poker, really isn’t funny.
You Devious, Devious Son Of A Bitch,
YOU DYED MY BEDSHEETS PINK?!
You do realise, don’t you, that sometime in the not-too-far-off future, I will be wanting to date someone? And said someone probably won’t be too happy with my bedroom looking more girly than hers does?
If you’re wondering where the cash that was under your pillow has gone, it’s staying in my wallet until I have time to spend it on redecorating.
I did you a favour. From what I hear, most of your dates are fairly lethal.
PS: That’s not even half of it. Check your bookcase.
That’s it. You’re going down.
I liked those boots.
Have fun fixing your car.
Pulling apart the engine is one thing. But then resetting all the radio stations? That’s just cruel.
You short-sheeted me? What are you, twelve?
Okay – was that peanut butter or a weird form of mold?
PS: Little known fact – the undead are just as vulnerable to itching powder as normal humans are. You should probably check your room carefully.
Humans are also vulnerable to poison ivy.
You really are pure evil.
If you’re wondering where all the furniture’s gone, don’t worry – you haven’t been robbed.
Unless you want to spend the rest of your lives wearing one set of clothes and sleeping on the floor, work it out.