Wednesday, March 27: We were out of bananas again.

Time to go to the grocery store and restock.

I hopped into my Ford Escape, revving hard and scattering gravel all over the daffodils on the side of the crappy driveway as I pealed out onto the main road, honking loudly at a couple bicycles and running them off the eight-inch drop of the tightly curved shoulder.

I switched off economy mode and high-tailed it to the local ghetto Kroger, chasing the clock.

Dodging a pair of mated hobos in the parking lot begging for spare change, I rushed into the store two minutes before closing time, heading left, only to make a terrible discovery.

THE BANANAS WERE ALL OUT

There was not a single juicy, yellow banana to be found anywhere in the fruit section.

Instead, where bananas should have been, someone had stocked green plantains.

In need of potassium, I reluctantly stuffed two of them in a plastic bag, figuring I could fry them up with honey to make them edible. While waiting in the self-checkout line, I took my sweet revenge on Yelp.

Upon arriving home, I left the plantains on the counter next to the microwave, and promptly forgot about them.

I heard my stupid housemate arriving home, banging his car door outside, and a minute later ascending the castle stairwell.

I knew it was HIM again from the muted percussive sound of faux-rubber Chinese sneakers on the wooden floorboards. We have a no-shoes policy in the castle, which was observed by the other residents. As an organic farmer living on $13 an hour to serve the greater good, the thought of micro-aggressing petroleum particles on his soles polluting the kitchen floor tiles turned my stomach.

Through the non-insulated walls of my room, I listened to him puttering around in the kitchen,

opening the refrigerator outside my door,

peeling the foil off a yogurt container,

shoving non-organic Greek yogurt down his throat and swallowing,

partially rinsing the empty container in the sink,

and DROPPING rather than placing it into the recycle bin.

And then, the freezer door,

the microwave being programmed,

the boiling of water in an electronic plastic "kettle",

the sound of more eating, a pause, and then steps back to the center of the kitchen to rinse off the microwave container. This was the critical moment that would determine his fate.

THE SOUND OF THE TRASH CAN LID BEING OPENED

I heard him crumpling up the plastic wrap from the plastic microwave meal container, depositing it in the garbage, and the lid banging back down.

It was time to teach him a lesson.

It's Monday, April 1. Easter was yesterday and it's time to fry up those plantains to make them edible, along with a lot of honey to sanctify them. I rush upstairs without taking my shoes off and check next to the microwave. No plantains.

Oh well, I think. My organic farmer roommate must have pilfered them, since they are green, and green is his favorite word.

In our last argument, I'd watched his face crumble as I explained precisely how his rusting Prius burned more petroleum in two seconds than he saves by dutifully washing and drying the plastic wrap on his unaffordable Amy's microwave tortellini.

Anyway, I have strawberry banana Greek yogurts in the fridge.

I grab one of them. The foil takes a little more work than normal to come off, but I think nothing of it. Fruit at the bottom. I mix it up. It tastes a little different than I was expecting but I figure I didn't mix it enough, and I take another bite.

Wait, what the hell??

Something is wrong. VERY wrong.

A blood-curdling screen erupts from the kitchen. From the other side of my door, I smirk in satisfaction. This is more drama than I expected.

Another scream. Then the sounds of the overturned dish rack tumbling into the sink, and broken pottery striking the tiles. Great. Now I'm going to have crap to clean up.

I hear my housemate stumble down the stairs towards the lower floors. Trying to contain my snorts of laughter, I wait for the sound of his steps to dissipate before emerging from my room to inspect the scene of the crime.

Just as I'm about to head into the kitchen, I hear steps coming back up the stairs, fast, and heavy. I feel the blood rush from my face as I hear him banging on my door, roaring --

"DYLAN! YOU'RE A DEAD MAN!"

A tremendous SMASH hits my door.

The steel edge of an axe sends splinters flying across my room. I scream like a little bitch.

As he jerks the axe back, retracting it for another strike, I see his eye through the door. It's popping out of his skull and bloodshot, with the pupil rolled back under his fully retracted eyelid.

Another axe strike. Now I can see his Mr. Bean-like smile leering hungrily at me like a crazed animal. He reaches through the jagged hole in the door for the doorknob to unlock it.

I grope desperately under my bed, searching for my organic capsaicin protective spray.

Too late.

It's Tuesday April second, and I'm at ghetto Kroger again. There are ripe bananas this time. They are organic. I grab a bunch of them, peel one on the spot, and take a giant bite. The shaking in my hands dissipates.

I break off a banana from another bunch to add to mine, not to take home with me, but to weigh at the register so that I'm not cheating the grocery store out of the 15 cents of banana that I just ate. After weighing them all together and paying, I return the extra banana to the banana section and gently place it among the other single bananas.

Dylan would have been proud.

When I get home, I notice that Dylan's car isn't there. The kitchen garbage upstairs reeks and seems heavier than normal. I tie it up and open the supply drawer to replace the bag. We're out of trash bags. Weird. I just bought more last week. I check under the sink for bleach to clean out the trash can, and that's out as well.

It's weird that I don't remember anything from yesterday.

The door outside Dylan's room looks like it has been freshly stained. It smells like organic sandalwood oil. The doorknob looks shiny, new and yellow.

What a tasteful choice.