Whitley Strieber, eat my guts out

Oh man I’m not feeling well. I just got another visit from aliens. They get into my apartment through trickery, like knocking on the door, holding out mail I take it then somehow they slip by me and into the footwell.

It’s my fault really. I saw them on the street and gave them a photo of themselves from our last close encounter. I suppose they were made happy by it. So they brought chestnuts. And let me tell ya, chestnuts at the best of times can at best be described as ‘not delicious’.

Then they insisted on feeding me one, and I know that they’re not going to leave until they’ve had their way with me so I give in. They cut one open and used a teaspoon that was sitting on the sink to spoon-feed me it. As they’re lifting it to me gob I try to remember what I’d used the teaspoon for. But then when I’m taking it, I discover that the alien’s hand reeks of dog food…
Also, they tried to tell me that I should put my bread in the fridge, which is ridiculous. What do beings from Zeta Reticuli know about how bread keeps? Don’t email; that’s a rhetorical question.

And now I’m fighting off the urge to gag from the lingering smell and thought-of-smell of can dogfood.
I was just on my way out to dinner, and the mail they gave me isn’t even for me.
Could life possibly get any worse?