By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Illustration by Bob AulAnd to think you were once Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. You are absolutely mental. You work in a pillow factory in Compton. As a roommate, you're a slob. You stomp your feet when you don't get your way. You contribute nothing to our home but drama. You invited your boyfriend to live with us; you call his PlayStation 2 his contribution to the rent. You subsist on a diet of cheesesteak sandwiches. You'd wear a mullet if you didn't shave your head. He took out the trash—once. He says he has work, but adjusting the monitor speaker's volumes for Bonnie Raitt is not a complete résumé. You have never purchased toilet paper. Behind your back, he brags that he gets blowjobs when he works shows.
After all of this, you wake me up this morning to throw water in my face because I borrowed your bong? I apologized, and you were still crazy. And then your boyfriend attacked me. And then you created a dramatic scene outside our townhome—like something out of Cops—and called me an "ingrate." Do you know what the word means? It means "not thankful." What have I got to thank you for? For this: you have showed me the lowest depths to which humanity can sink. And to think you were once Mickey Mouse at Disneyland.
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