Dear Thermos Girl,

I have a few things to say to you.

You probably don't know me. I'm just the college student trying to watch Family Guy clip compilations on YouTube with the brightness turned all the way down so no one walking behind notices. But enough about me. Let's talk about you.

I've smelled bad things in my day. I once dropped my Straight Talk wireless and it slid behind the toilet and I had to get on my knees to reach my arm behind and my face was literally like six inches away from my diarrhea. And yet I can still say confidently that the putrid shit you're eating out of that dirty ass thermos that looks like it was buried for six years before you unearthed it smells much worse.

What even is that shit? What even is it? It's not something you bought unless they started making the bread bowls at Panera with the crusted turd flakes that have accumulated on a poorly washed Fruit of the Loom that's been in daily friction with an unsatisfactorily wiped anus. You vile, evil bitch, shoving your macaroni salad that looks like it was boiled in week old semen so that everybody around has to smell it.

And yet you're sitting there, a dirty plastic fork in hand that you probably got from Chinese takeout three years ago and decided to save and occasionally wash by leaving in the bottom of the same sink you brush your teeth in, feeding on that colonoscopy caviar like a starving man in a buffet, you fucking villain.

It smells so hot, too. It smells so warm and angry and ready, that fresh fecal fettuccine. I know that fucking dirty ass Thermos that you probably found on the shore of a swamp didn't keep it that piping hot. You put it in the lounge microwave, I bet, laughing to yourself in unison with every other North Face wearing sociopath, content as its rancid fumes infected the entire god damn room.

I hate you more than life itself, but I admire the hustle in a way.

Peace out.

Love,

Me.