The 5 Stages Of Grief When Someone Eats Your Leftovers

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As you open the fridge with an almost turned-on sense of glee, your eyes scan hungrily for the prize. Your prize. The stark white, styrofoam box filled with half of a burger, some fries, a pickle, and a few of the leftover boneless wings you ordered on a whim. It’s been a long day, and you’ve been dreaming about your artery-clogging leftovers since this morning. Imagining getting home, taking off your pants, popping open a beer, and receding into a carb-induced coma in the dim light of Netflix.

The beer is open, your show is up and paused, your dress pants have been traded for basketball shorts, and you are ready for the night. All of the pointless emails, annoying phone calls, and lame invites you turned down were all for this moment. This evening of pure, unplanned, lazy bliss. The only problem? As you’re scanning the shelves, moving the milk to the side and pushing the wilted bag of unopened spinach out of the way, you just can’t seem to find the box.

You thought you put it on the middle shelf, but you could be mistaken. You’re sure it’s here. It has to be. Still, as you push food out of the way and open the always empty vegetable crisper, a sense of panic stars to engulf you. Where is it? You wonder, as you shove aside Tupperware after Tupperware to no avail. Then, it dawns on you. With a look of horror on your face, you turn toward the trashcan. And there, crushed under the community outreach newspaper and a banana peel, you see it. Your box. Your Friday night. Your lifeline.

Shock

A light layer of sweat coats your upper lip as you gaze back and forth between the shelf on the fridge where you had safely put your leftovers, and the trash, where the box lay discarded and destroyed. Your empty, hungry mouth gapes open as you stand frozen on the spot, unable to believe what was happening.

Denial

There’s no way. There’s no fucking way, you think, as you stare at the box that once contained your coveted food with a feeling of disbelief washing over you. There’s no way this would happen. This couldn’t have happened. All you were looking forward to all damn day, basically your entire life, was coming home, vegging out, and stuffing your face with half of a mediocre burger. That’s literally the only good thing you had going for you. There’s no way that could have been taken from you.

You edge toward the container tossed in the trash, and tentatively open it, not quite sure what you’re hoping to see. Your food intact, maybe, because your shitty roommate just thought it was old and tossed it? Some sort of Jesus miracle where instead of half a burger, you now have two? Whatever the reason, whether you know it or not, you’re hoping that things will turn out okay. That this is just some sort of horrible mistake.

Anger

As you reach into the trash and open the box (not even the most soul-crushing thing you’ve done today so like, it’s fine), your worst fears are confirmed. All that’s left of your glorious meal is a pickle with one bite taken out of it and a small portion of stale hamburger bun. You toss the box back in the trash and start to pace up and down the kitchen, muttering to yourself. That motherfucker, you grumble, as your hands twist in angst. Who, the fuck, eats someone else’s leftovers? You whip back open the fridge, searching for something of your roommate’s to eat. You don’t care what it is, you just want to cause him as much pain as he just caused you.

Depression

Still, as you gaze at the relatively barren refrigerator, you realize that nothing you take from him is going to make it better. Besides, your roommate basically just buys shitty frozen dinners and cereal. You close the fridge door with less gusto than before and cast one last, forlorn look at the trash. I mean, you two did agree that you’d share food. None of this “don’t touch my shit” kind of relationship. You really only have yourself to blame here.

And so, with a heavy heart and empty stomach, you sit down at your shitty Ikea dining room table (if you can call the 2-4 person table in the corner of your kitchenette a “dining room table”) and you mourn. You mourn for the leftovers you never got to have. You mourn over the fact that you didn’t set stronger guidelines when you moved in with that asshole. And you mourn over the fact that if you were more attractive, more successful, and more cultured, this probably never would have happened to you. There’s no reason. None of it makes sense. But you’re spiraling down into a hunger-induced depression that just needs to be ridden out.

Acceptance/Grudge Holding

And yet, as you sit there, pondering life, your stomach reminds you that no matter how bleak things look, you just have to keep going. I mean, that’s what this existence is all about, right? You can either admit defeat or you can keep going in the times of adversity.

And so, with a little more caution, a little more wisdom, and a little more cynicism, you go back to the drawing board. You open every food delivery app you have and go to town. You deserve it. You’ve been through a lot. And as you wait the absurd 45 minutes for the even more absurd $45 worth of overpriced delivery food, you do the only thing you can after such an ordeal: You write your roommate a passive aggressive note, slap it on the fridge, and start the search for a solo apartment..

Image via Shutterstock

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Rachel Varina

if it doesn't have snack or seats, i'm not there. hate mail/Sunny references can be sent to itsrachelvarina@gmail.com

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