Dear Family,
I care about you all, but brace yourselves for a little reality check. Yes, I’m directing this at you, Derek and Mia. We need to discuss the ongoing invasion of my personal belongings.
I’ve been too lenient, allowing my things to be treated like communal property without setting clear boundaries. In fact, I thought I had established some rules, but they seem to have gone unnoticed.
Let’s get this straight: my possessions matter just as much as yours do. Honestly, I don’t have that much in the first place. When we moved from Seattle to Denver, it became painfully obvious how limited my personal items were—just a handful of boxes filled with books and a few outfits. And don’t even think about claiming the kitchen gadgets as mine, or I might just lose it. That sort of thinking is outdated, and I won’t tolerate any “patriarchal nonsense” in this house.
Remember when I bought that shiny new car, only to find it scratched by a bicycle with training wheels? Or that time I lent it to someone, only to get it back with a cracked windshield? And let’s not even start on the chaos left by tiny hands inside the car.
The fact that you both are still alive is a testament to my patience.
I’ve watched my favorite body wash disappear down the drain, my premium gelato vanish because someone thought I was taking too long to eat it, my iPad commandeered without permission, and my headphones mysteriously go missing. Not to mention the Diet Coke that vanished overnight.
And don’t even get me started on my Netflix profile being cluttered with shows I’d never watch and my name hilariously altered to “Silly Sally.” As someone who prides herself on refined taste, I cannot bear the thought of Netflix thinking I willingly choose to watch cartoons. You both know how much I dislike the name Sally—it’s either Sarah or Mom. This is no laughing matter because Netflix is always watching, and you are ruining my viewing recommendations!
I’ve tolerated all this nonsense for too long, but there’s a line, and it’s drawn in Nutella.
That delicious jar of hazelnut bliss belongs to me alone. No one else is allowed to touch it, eat it, or even think about it. No Nutella on waffles, no dipping fingers into the jar—this is non-negotiable. In your world, Nutella doesn’t even exist.
I refuse to hide it away or consume it in secret. Everyone else’s stuff is out in the open, and I expect the same respect in return. And if I ever forget to replace my Nutella, heed my warning: you better not touch the Tostitos queso. Consider this your fair warning about the consequences.
Thank you both for understanding. I love you (but not enough to share my Nutella).
You’ve been warned,
Silly Sally
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In summary, it’s time to respect personal belongings and establish clear boundaries within the family.
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