1. The first time

I was just relaxing at home when I heard a strange noise coming from the kitchen. My heart started racing. I thought someone had broken into my house. I mean, I guess they had, but not the person I might expect. I went out to investigate and saw a tattooed man going through the refrigerator. I said, "Can I help you?" Then the man turned around. It was Post Malone. He said, "You don't mind if I just grab a snack, do you?" He was very polite. "No, I guess not. Go ahead," I replied. I mean, I wasn't going to tell Post Malone he couldn't have a snack. He continued to eat for a little while longer. Then he suddenly left and disappeared into the night, never to be seen by me again, or so I thought.

2. The second time

Nobody seemed to believe me when I told them about my encounter with Post Malone. I really should have gotten a picture with him. Luckily, another opportunity soon presented himself. I heard sounds emanating from the kitchen once again and upon investigating, I saw Post Malone taking a huge bite out of my leftover meatball sub that I had gotten from Subway the day before. I was a little annoyed because I was actually looking forward to eating the rest of that sub. "You don't mind, do you?" He asked me. I hesitated, then finally said, "no, I guess not. Go ahead." Then he demolished the rest of the sub like some sort of animal. It was literally like a jungle cat feasting upon a gazelle. Afterward, he disappeared once again, and I still didn't get a picture. All I was left with was the disgusting memory of Post Malone's eating habits.

3. The third time

At this point, Post Malone seemed to be getting sneakier. I didn't even hear him this time. I just so happened to be walking past the kitchen when I once again saw him rifling through my refrigerator like some sort of wild beast. I hadn't really thought about it up until then, but I also had no idea how he kept getting into my house. All the doors were locked each night, so I really did not know. He didn't see me yet, so I quickly got out my phone and snapped a picture of him just as he was gulping down a huge spoonful of peanut butter. I quickly moved so I could stay out of his sight and examine the picture. Then I saw it. Or, I didn't see it, to be precise. The picture was there, but Post Malone was not in it. It was almost as if my camera was unable to capture him. Was Post Malone a vampire? Maybe a werewolf? Some sort of otherworldly creature that could not be captured on camera? It seemed like a real possibility. When I looked back into the kitchen, Post Malone was gone. Also, the jar of peanut butter was still on the counter, which annoyed me slightly. I mean seriously Post Malone, at least clean up after yourself.

4. The fourth time

My mind had been so consumed with the fact that Post Malone had been coming into my house and eating my food that I had barely even had time to stop to think about why he might be doing so in the first place. I made a mental note to ask him next time. I began hanging out in my kitchen at night, waiting for him to appear once more. It only took a few days. There he was, stuffing leftover spaghetti into his mouth while heating up a frozen chicken parmesan meal in the microwave. I guess he was really in the mood for pasta on that particular night. I then spoke. "So... Post Malone... it's not that I don't like having you here, I'm just wondering... why exactly do you keep coming here and eating all my food?" I felt that it was a pretty legitimate question. I mean, the guy is like a super famous singer/rapper, so I was pretty sure he could afford his own meals. He just had a new album come out too, so I figured he probably had a pretty busy schedule, which confused me even more because I didn't know how he could possibly have time to keep taking my food so often. He looked up at me with a mouth full of spaghetti, saying nothing. Then he finally spoke. "If you''ll excuse me," he said. "My chicken parm is ready." He took the meal out of the microwave and then suddenly disappeared in a puff of smoke. "Do you need a fork?" I called after him. But it was too late. He was gone. I guess he must have eaten the chicken parm with his hands, which I thought was kinda gross.

5. Yep, the fifth time

If I could not get his picture, then I had to at least get his autograph. It was honestly the least he could do, since my refrigerator was looking more and more barren ever since Post Malone had started demolishing its insides. I waited patiently for him to arrive once again, as I knew he would. Sure enough, he did. He was making himself a gigantic sandwich full of mayo, mustard, and every single type of lunchmeat imaginable. I let him finish making the sandwich because he seemed like one of those people who really get into the process of sandwich-making. Then as he took a bite, I asked him for his autograph, his facial hair dripping with mustard and little bits of turkey meat. "Sure," he gargled out through his mouthful of sandwich. I gave him some paper and a pencil on which to sign, and he did, but he also dripped a bunch of mayonnaise and roast beef onto the paper, almost like half his sandwich ended up on my autograph page. "Thanks," I said half sarcastically, not wanting to touch the disgusting sandwich bits that had made their way onto the paper. "No problem," said Post Malone. Then he returned to the fridge and took a peek inside. "You're running a little low on stuff, just so you know." I closed my eyes for a second in mild frustration. Then when I opened them, he was gone.