Dear Drunken Stranger Who Climbed Through My Window and Slept On My Dining Room Floor Last Night:
Well good morning, you. Yeah, you, stranger in the green hooded sweatshirt who is in my pantry, holding my box of Honey Bunches of Oats with one hand and scratching your ass with the other.
On the one hand, I’m really glad you were so drunk you needed to seek shelter en route to your dwelling, but not quite so drunk you couldn’t remember how to break into Daniel’s house via the dining room window and make yourself at home on the floor under the table. That’s called “Using your head!” and “Being resourceful!” and I don’t know one Founding Father or Boy Scout of America who wouldn’t be darn proud of that.
Unfortunately, Daniel doesn’t live here. I don’t know who Daniel is. Neither do my roommates. Which brings us to a final and very important declarative statement: We don’t know who you are, either.
You left a giant footprint on my wall, you smell like beer, and not only did I not invite you to this slumber party, but I also most certainly did not invite you to cozy up with my breakfast. Also – and I hate to keep harping on this, believe me – but, again, nobody here actually knows who you are. And it’s getting uncomfortable.
So put down the oats and head on outta here, man. It’s a beautiful day in San Francisco, and I’ll bet you can scratch that ass just as vigorously from your own house. If you can find it.