Baby, I love you. But I’m really, really hungry. And so no, I’m not mad at you. I’m just mad in general. I’m mad that I’m not eating. I’m mad that you’re talking to me instead of helping me figure out how I’m going to get something into my stomach. Because I’m starving.

Sweetie, I love it when you cook, and dinner was delicious. And yes, the portion size was fine. But I don’t know what to tell you. Because I’m still very hungry. And so yes, if you want to make this into a fight, I’ll fight. Let’s do it. Because when I’m hungry, I get cranky. And when I’m cranky, then yeah, I’m probably going to act like a huge dick. And all of that acting like a huge dick is just going to get me hungrier. So instead of standing there and asking me a bunch of rhetorical questions, like, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you being such an asshole? How could you talk to me this way?” why don’t you just give me twenty bucks and tell me to go to McDonald’s?

It’s really not that hard. I love you. But I’m a man with an appetite, and sometimes I can’t keep it in check. It’s just like when you’re having one of those days when you don’t feel like it. I’m always like, “Hey, baby, come on, lets do something together.” And you’ll be like, “No, not right now Rob, not today Rob, I don’t feel like it.” And I’ll say, “You don’t feel like it? What does that even mean?” And you’ll say, “It means that I just don’t feel like it.”

At least when I’m hungry, I’m telling you exactly what’s wrong. “Come on Rob, lets sit on the couch and watch some TV together,” you’ll say to me, to which I’ll reply, “Listen, babe, I need something to eat first. I can’t sit still. The void inside of my stomach is consuming all of my conscious thoughts. Please, get me something to eat. I’m at the point now where I’m too hungry to actually get food for myself. Quick, I have an emergency peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my backpack. Just get it to me, hurry, I’ll eat it and it should give me enough energy so we can leave the house and find a decent meal.” See, that’s a concrete problem with a concrete solution.

Just keep me well fed. When we go out to dinner, stop asking me if I want to split something. I never want to split anything. I want to eat all of my food, and then I want to finish all of your food, even if you’re not done eating yet. Because I’m still hungry. Either that or don’t give me that look when I order two entrees. Because not only will I eat both, but I’m still going to finish your food after I’m done. At least with two entrees, you’ll have a little more time to try and enjoy your meal before I show you exactly why I’m captain of the clean plate club.

Listen, baby, I love you. But the food at your place sucks. I’m sorry, but those stupid dried pieces of seaweed don’t count as snacks. You bought a whole case of them at Costco, and I’m not even kidding here, I opened all of them up and stacked them one on top of the other. It was like the equivalent of a handful of pretzels. I’m not saying don’t buy the seaweed snacks anymore. I’m just saying, either start buying thousands more than you’re currently buying, or start buying better, more satisfying snacks. Because last time I got lucky and found that frozen pot pie way in the back of your freezer covered in that mountain of frost. That gave me just enough fuel to make it to the deli down the block. But next time I’m worried I won’t be able to make it.

It’s not you, OK. I love you. But I’m really, really hungry. Can we please get something to eat? And can it not be that vegetarian fusion place? And the next time you visit your mom and she sends you home with those meatballs, can you ask her for more meatballs? Ask her for a lot more meatballs. Those were delicious. I’m really hungry. Thanks baby. Thanks for understanding. I love you.