Death by Charity

My roommate's fiance tried to kill me Saturday night. I'm sure it was unintentional... that's what they all say.

They had gone out to dinner and some other activity that was not a movie. When they got in he had some leftover salad that was proffered. It looked delic. So, I took a small bowl. Thankfully. He told me that said salad contained cheese, feta, he thought (which is notable because yours truly is very lactose intolerant – but I can sometimes manage cheese). Midway through my bowl I decided it tasted more like bleu cheese than feta (which is notable because yours truly is also allergic to penicillin and all things mold, but this allergy is less on the side of stomach pains and more on the side of death-like symptoms – where by death-like, I mean actual death.). So, I started avoiding the cheese (yeah, yeah, yeah, but it was a good salad!).

Yeah, well, about 45 minutes later his salad and my stomach got in a huge row. My stomach won. Luckily I was almost home from the grocery store as there is nothing nearly so sexy as vomiting on the side of the road like some drunk vagrant. I held out long enough to make it home and run to the washroom, thus saving myself the humiliation of public puking.

Sunday, when I saw him next, I mentioned that I thought the salad might have had bleu cheese, instead of feta. "Oh, yeah.” Said he, “I think you're right."

So, we see, he really did try to kill me. Luckily my stomach knew what was up with that and rejected the notion. He did feel bad for it, though.