But, Right Now, You're Popping Blisters On Your Feet, And I'm The One To Blame. Or: "Sorry For Making You Walk Barefoot When We Went Home."

Sometimes, when I'm in a bad mood --
"Now that's the beginning of a comedy act," you interrupt.
Which is something I guess you'd say.
It's weird writing this after I just told it to you.
It's even weirder that I'm writing this while watching you do pull-ups on that stupid pull-up bar that I pretend to hate but won't tell you that I actually hate because I know you're fond of it and no way no how am I going to juice your dream like they did on the 5:30 AM infomercials for those power juicers I used to watch when I used to do pull-ups when I was in high school but you didn't know that did you?
Surprise!
Anyway.
Sometimes, when I'm in a bad mood, I like to think back to our freshman year together, when you, in a fit of indignant rage, wrote the most aggressive passive-aggressive note I've seen to date, directed towards "the sick fuck" who was responsible for smearing poop on your bath towel.
You were convinced that it was one of your suitemates.
I don't think I've ever seen you so angry.
And that's why it makes me laugh.
I also laugh because I was convinced that you, by some washroom oversight, some happy accident, some hilarious trick of the universe that was that bathroom, were the one responsible for that stain.
"That's what I fear," you interrupted.
Now, that's the beginning of a comedy act.