I licked your butter.
I’m sorry for the pain I have caused you, but just writing those words is a massive weight offmy shoulders.
You were my first year flatmates. We were actually getting along ok. We did the normal Freshers’ things. We went to the novelty nights out. We had communal meals. Things were going ok.
Then, just like the Napoleonic wars, the trouble started. The trouble that would eventually lead to me, licking your butter.
It started off well enough. We had fun. We had banter. We had a washing up rota. Then, the rules started to fray at the seam.
People (and by people, I mean me) forgot to do the washing up. Dishes were left to grow mould. Things were said by both parties (and by both parties, I mean you). Hurtful things. Something had to give. I can’t remember why, but one day you just annoyed me too damn much and I snapped.
I licked your butter. It wasn’t even really good butter.
I don’t even like butter, I prefer margarine. But I wasn’t thinking, I was like a man possessed! Possessed by a desire to lick other people’s dairy products.
Well, anyway – that’s pretty much it. A story of revenge, betrayal and dairy spreads.
I would like to say that I’m sorry. But I can’t.
P.S. I also stole like, all of your yoghurts. Sorry (not sorry).