Still sad.

To whom it may concern: Thanks for eating my string cheese. I hope you enjoyed it. (Asshole.) -Yours very truly, Sadly Cheeseless

What the hell with the cheese already?

The bastard came back to finish off the job.

My cheese is gone. The last 2 eaten, or worse, by the culprit(s) before I got to work this morning.

There shall be consequences. Oh yes. The cheese wrath shall be furious.

You don't mess with a man's cheese product.

No one should have to work on Saturday. Which I guess technically isn't possible because then nothing would get done on the weekends. Bad thing? I don't care.

I've been keeping some healthy munchies at work so any temptation to have a cookie or some other fat-laden baked object would be curbed. Yogurt, fruit, triscuits, cheese, peanut butter... you get the picture. I've been keeping my perishables in the drawer on the bottom of the fridge.

About half an hour ago, I was greeted with an almost-empty package of string cheese. As in we went from 12 on Thursday when I left to 2.

Heinous fuckery.

You don't TOUCH my cheese unless you are given explicit permission to do so. A pox on you, cheese stealer. May you become lactose intolerant and smitten by burning flatulence.

Asshole.