I adore you all, but brace yourselves for a reality check. Yes, I’m talking to you, the Big Guy and the Teen Wonder. This whole trespassing into my personal space has gone on long enough!
I’ve been way too chill about the outright invasion of my belongings because I failed to lay down the law. Sure, I thought I had communicated some boundaries, but apparently, they were as effective as a screen door on a submarine.
Let’s Be Real
My things are just as valuable as yours. It’s not like I have a mountain of possessions. When we moved from sunny Atlanta to the hustle of Philly, it hit me just how little I actually owned — a mere four boxes of books and two seasons of clothes. And for anyone who thinks that “household items” count as mine, prepare for a verbal smackdown! That’s just plain sexist, and I won’t stand for you being a “tool of the patriarchy” under my roof.
Past Incidents
Remember when I bought that shiny new car, only to have it marred by the metal handlebars of a toddler’s bike? Or that time I handed over the keys and got it back with a cracked windshield? And let’s not forget the day tiny hands transformed the inside into a chaotic art project.
The fact that you’re both still alive is a testament to my enduring love.
I’ve watched my luxurious body wash disappear down the drain, the Talenti gelato vanish because I “took too long,” my iPad hijacked, my headphones gone, my nail polish ruined, and my last Diet Coke consumed overnight.
Netflix Woes
And don’t even get me started on Netflix! My profile is now cluttered with shows I’d never watch voluntarily, and my name has been changed to “Betty Big Boobs.”
As someone with a refined taste, I cannot bear the thought of anyone — especially Netflix — thinking I willingly watch anime. And you both know how much I detest the name Betty, which is a far cry from my elegant Elizabeth. It’s Liz or Mom, period. This is not a laughing matter; Netflix is always watching, and you two are ruining my future recommendations.
The Nutella Ultimatum
I’ve tolerated this one-sided sharing like a champ, but there’s one sacred item that crosses the line, and it stops here: The Nutella is mine. All mine.
You need to get your own, you hear? That hazelnut joy in a jar is my personal bliss, and no one is allowed to touch it. No putting it on waffles, no Nutella on toast, no finger-dipping — just forget it exists in your universe.
I will not hide my Nutella, nor will I sneak-eat it in a closet. Everyone else’s items are out in plain sight, and I expect the same respect in return.
And should I forget to replace my Nutella, just know that dire consequences await if you dare touch the Tostitos queso. Consider this your warning!
Thank you both. I love you. (But I don’t “share my Nutella” love you.)
You’ve been forewarned,
Betty Big Boobs