Dear Phil

Dear Phil,

How are you doing, you old so-and-so? It's been a while! Since September 22nd of 2004 to be exact. That was the day I moved out of your house while you were at work.

It was a pretty awful day, but thinking about it now kinda makes me laugh. I mean—what must you have thought when you came home that day and all my stuff was gone? All that I left behind was a note, house key, and several scratches on your walls from moving furniture down the narrow staircase and hallway. The scratches were, for the most part, unintentional. The note, however, I thought you'd really enjoy. You seemed to really like leaving me notes. All sorts of notes. Sometimes I'd walk into the den and there would be a note on the TV.

"Josh—You left the TV on sleep mode again. I'd really appreciate it if you'd turn the TV all the way off. It saves electricity and prolongs the life of the TV."

Well, Phil, as much as I appreciate your concern over the longevity of my television set—the one that's been alive and well since 1995—I'd appreciate it even more if you'd mind your own fucking business. It's especially interesting as to why you're so concerned about the electric bill—the electric bill that I pay for. I also don't see the difference between me leaving the TV slightly on and you keeping your laptop on and plugged in 24/7. I'd also appreciate it if your plane crashed on a remote archipelago filled with cannibals and wasps.

I also really enjoyed the note you left on the washing machine for me.

"Josh—I noticed the last time you did laundry that the size of your loads were too big for the washer and dryer. Can you please stop putting so much in at once? It's going to damage the machines."

Well, Phil, I'm glad you're taking such a keen interest in my laundry practices. I'll tell you what. When there's "damage" to your washer and dryer from my filling them up with a reasonable amount of clothing, I'll be happy to pay for your grievances. Until then, drown in a fire.

Or the notes on the refrigerator.

"Josh—I'd really appreciate it if you would pay more attention to the food you buy at the grocery store. You know I'm on the Atkins diet and hardly any of the food you bought is appropriate for me to eat. Do you want me to fail? Do you want me to be fat so you feel more secure about yourself?"

Well, Phil, that's an interesting point you raise. The funny thing about the Atkins diet is that it basically consists of eating meat and broccoli. Did you by any chance peek in the freezer? The one full of meat and broccoli? The one that even has low-carb ice cream for you? If that's no good, you could always—oh, I don't know—do your own fucking food shopping. It may even do you good to step foot in a grocery store with the rest of us peasants. The common folk who don't have someone else doing their food shopping for them like an indentured servant. It may also do you some good to fall on a pitchfork.

And then there was the very last note. More of a letter really. This one was particularly noteworthy (pun intended) because you actually handed this one to me. And then, smiling, you asked me to read it in front of you. Because of this, I thought it was a good letter. I thought maybe it was a letter of apology. A peace offering in our tumultuous relationship. An olive branch extended because of how inhumanely passive aggressive and rude you had been since the day I moved in with you. After you asked me to move in because you hated how far away I was from you. Because you wanted the chance to get to know me better and spend more time with me. Because you said it was stupid of me to pay a landlord money when you had two empty rooms. Because you knew I had nowhere to go right after college graduation and a limited budget until I found my first real job.

However, it was about as far from these things as a letter could be. Do you remember? I still have it.

Dear Josh,

I hope you don't mind me writing all of this down instead of talking to you. I am just too emotional to have this conversation with you. I'm not trying to be passive aggressive or to surprise you, I just want you to know my feelings clearly without me stumbling through them verbally and incoherently.

The last few months of living with you have been a living nightmare. I was hoping that we could be adult enough to be roommates while we continue to date, but I can see you are not mature enough to handle such a complex situation. Ever since you have moved in, you have disrespected me, my property, and our relationship. Whenever I have tried to bring something to your attention that bothers me with a thoughtful note, you laugh it off dismissively or get angry with me for not discussing it with you in person. Unlike you, I don't enjoy confrontation. To me, it seems more civil and respectful to leave a note. Instead of responding in kind, you insist on having a nasty dialogue about everything. What kind of a future does this relationship have if we can't communicate?

I don't want to break up, but I think you have to be a better communicator if this is going to work out. I hope that you will make more of an effort to address my concerns, and in the meantime I will try and be patient with you. I look forward to knowing you better and progressing our relationship in a more healthy environment.

Love,
Phil

The entire time I was reading your letter, my mouth was hanging open. I couldn't believe a 40-year old man had to write down his feelings for me. When I looked up, trembling with rage, I saw you still smiling sheepishly. Like you were expecting me to give you a big hug and apologize for being so immature. I was speechless.

"So... what do you think?" You finally asked.

I continued sitting there, staring at you. And then I exploded.

"A LIVING NIGHTMARE?" I shrieked.

"NOT MATURE ENOUGH?" I bellowed.

"MORE CIVIL AND RESPECTFUL TO LEAVE A NOTE?" I screamed.

"YOU'LL TRY AND BE PATIENT WITH ME?" I boomed.

I got up from the couch, threw down your letter, grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" You asked of me as I opened the front door.

"I'LL SEND YOU A LETTER!" I screeched, slamming the door behind me.

The next morning, while you were at work, my friend and I moved all of my meager belongings out of your house. The first two times we scratched the paint off your wall with my dresser it was an accident. The third, fourth, and fifth times it was on purpose.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you all this sooner. I thought it would be more civil to leave you a little note.