The Meat

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One thing I need to do: get rid of the meat in the freezer.

Christ, who would buy so much meat? I could grill for three summers and still have half my freezer full.

I guess it’s not my fault. They listed the fully-stocked freezer as a perk when they sold me this place. But how could I know how much meat could fit in a standing unit? I don’t want to throw it away. My friends and family don’t want to take any. I wonder why? I mean, the stuff doesn’t taste terrible, a little sinewy, but it’s edible.

Could it be the mysterious labels on the packages? Kevin. Jeannine. Mr. Foster. Who names the animals they have butchered?

Could it be the shady circumstances under which the previous owner left? If only I didn’t work from home, I could load this stuff off on my coworkers. Let me tell you, buying a house after two years abroad was hard work, and I thought I’d found a real deal! These vaulted ceilings are great-the last owner even had noise reducing panels installed. And the realtor paid for what they called the most thorough cleaning they’d ever seen.

Oh well, that’s the price you pay for luxury away from the daily grind of the city. Yeah, I step out onto the veranda and can actually breathe the air outside. You can’t get that in the city. I can be free here, and if that means having to eat frozen rump roasts and bits of Chuck, then I’ll gladly make that trade.

 

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