9:10 a.m.: I gather all my belongings as that lard Dalton continues to lay there. I pick up four of his sweatshirts, a pair of his sweatpants, two t-shirts, and his toaster oven on my way out since he wants to play this game. I yell, “Bye, bitch,” as I walk out the front door. Never hooking up with him again (but probably, realistically, will next Saturday). I decide to take his mailbox too, just because I deserve it.