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Dear Fridge, You Are My Diary Now
Dear Fridge, You Are My Diary Now
By Doggie 🐶 – Fridge Philosopher, Late-Night Visitor, Keeper of Snack Secrets
I’ve started leaving my thoughts in the fridge.
Not on the fridge. In it.
Every time I open the door, I pour my heart out somewhere between the mustard and the leftover meatballs. And honestly? The fridge listens better than most.
📝 Entry #1: “Why is cold cheese sadder at night?”
📝 Entry #1: “Why is cold cheese sadder at night?”
11:42 p.m.
Mood: Pensive. Hungry. Slightly dramatic.
I stared at the cheddar for a full minute.
It stared back.
We were both going through something.
📝 Entry #2: “One bite, one promise, one bite more.”
📝 Entry #2: “One bite, one promise, one bite more.”
12:16 a.m.
Mood: Caught mid-heist.
Wrote this in my mind while holding a spoonful of frosting.
Mini Blue was judging me silently from the butter shelf.
I proceeded anyway.
📝 Entry #3: “Dear Fridge, I forgive you for the expired yogurt.”
📝 Entry #3: “Dear Fridge, I forgive you for the expired yogurt.”
8:03 a.m.
Mood: Brave. Regretful. Cleansed (emotionally and literally).
Sometimes, letting go is as easy as tossing something in the compost.
Sometimes it involves gagging slightly first.
📝 Entry #4: “I licked the lid to feel something.”
📝 Entry #4: “I licked the lid to feel something.”
2:47 p.m.
Mood: Existential. Also there were cookie crumbs involved.
Pandy says I need a real journal.
But the fridge doesn’t roll its eyes. Or suggest a nap. Or say, “Doggie, it’s your third snack this hour.”
No.
The fridge glows.
And hums.
And holds space for my leftovers and my feelings.
🐾 Closing Thought:
🐾 Closing Thought:
If a moment is worth remembering… it’s probably next to the hummus.
So go ahead.
Tell your secrets to the fridge.
It’s cool with it. 🧊❤️
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