Stop declaring your independence from me, Marcus
BY ANNABEL MARSHALL — firstname.lastname@example.org
Guys. Dudes. Bros. Etc. I think there’s something off with my roommate. Like, the vibes are seriously off. No jokes.
We used to be fine. But recently he’s been acting weird. He said he wants me to stop jumping off the fridge and cannonballing onto the couch every morning. But that’s just how I like to start my day. Plus, it saves time to keep the couch in the kitchen. That’s just basic math.
Like, being a STEM major is already a red flag. But he’s taking a coding class “just for fun.” I don’t think he understands what “fun” means, ‘cause he didn’t want to join in when we were having a competition to see who could eat a whole onion the fastest. He’s from Britain.
Also, last night I woke up and he was slowly turning a steak knife in his fingers, the moon reflecting off the blade. And, like, I’m an empath, so I felt like something was off.
Lately, I’ve noticed he’s become pretty pale. Like, I can see the contents of the refrigerator even when he’s standing right in front of it. Granted, the only thing in our refrigerator is Dijon mustard and four grapefruit White Claws. But that still seems like a warning sign. Again, he is British, so maybe he just hasn’t been in the sun in a while.
One time I saw him trying on this big powdered wig and ranting against the Federalists. And I’m pretty sure Halloween isn’t for at least another couple of months, so that could be something.
I don’t wanna be, like, rude or whatever, but I’m starting to think he’s the evil ghost of Thomas Jefferson. I talked to some guy from the internet in Venezuela who said he had a similar problem with Hugo Chavez haunting his outdoor shed.
Honestly, I’d be fine with it if Jefferson wasn’t such a bummer. I asked him if he wanted to do anything later and he said he wanted “to indulge in the rich fields of nature, where alone I should have served as a volunteer if left to my natural inclinations and partialities.” I don’t think we have that in Davis.
He sent me a “Busting Ghosts” kit and told me to refer to it only by that precise name; otherwise, the copyright police would come after me and French braid my intestines. I’m hoping I can just blast ol’ Tommy with the fancy rocket launcher thing without unleashing the full rage of a haunting Founding Father. I think I can get him on the first try ‘cause my frat went to paintball last week and I shot all of the pledges in the forehead at least twice. As long as he doesn’t see it coming.
Guys, the room just became freezing cold. I think he might have been listening to me. If I die, tell Joe Burrow I love him.
This concludes the official Yolo County transcript of Peter Chapman’s voicemail to the ESPN complaint line. The police are unsure why Chapman contacted ESPN, but friends of the victim have indicated that is the only number he knows by heart.
Written by: Annabel Marshall — email@example.com
Disclaimer: (This article is humor and/or satire, and its content is purely fictional. The story and the names of “sources” are fictionalized.)