I’ve been your landlord for 36 weeks now. (OK technically only 34, but that’s how we count it, so let’s not get all picky.) I want to record for posterity that you are a terrible renter.
First, the unexpected inhabitancy. I don’t think that needs any further explanation.
Second, causing debilitating sickness for four months. I. Will. Never. Forget.
Third, you insist on having me eat too much ice cream. Please stop that!
Lastly, you seem intent on trashing my body before you vacate, as if you are a college graduate on her last string of keg parties before leaving campus. This is no way to treat your very first home. Please desist from bruising my ribs, crushing my organs, and causing my hips to dislocate. There are some other things you’re doing to my body that I won’t discuss here in mixed company, but don’t think they’ve gone unnoticed. Trust me, when you’re out, it will be in your best interest to have left my body in the most functioning state possible.
Live it up, girl. Because soon, you’re going to be on the outside, competing with your three big siblings. I know you can hear them during the day. Don’t worry. I’ll protect you. Most of the time.