Dear Mean Bean Green,
Nowhere in our housing contract does it indicate that living with me requires you become a utensil taster. Last night you went above and beyond the call of roomie.
Even though we were at a restaurant that was way out of our league, or perhaps, because of it, you willingly checked to see if the tines of my fork really did taste like straight up metal. You affirmed that yes, there was a reason my meal tasted like pennies. Thank you.
I knew it wasn't just me.
Love, Your Roommate