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My ex boyfriend was really good at filling up the Brita.

He wasn’t good at giving massages or cooking dinner or vacuuming the cat hair off the couch, but he always made sure there was cold, clear, clean water in the fridge.

Living alone, I’ve realized, I’m really terrible at this. Refilling the Brita, that is.

It’s like I have a mental block against removing the plastic top, walking two feet to the sink, and holding the pitcher under the tap for eight seconds. It’s not that hard. I know this. I know that filling up a water pitcher is among the easiest of household chores, and yet, I can’t do it. I’d rather suffer through the indignity of drinking warm metallic DC tap water than deal with the fucking Brita.

This is maybe the most first world problem of ALL my first world problems.

But every day, when I peer into the fridge and see the empty Brita sitting there — a piece of chilly plastic devoid of any liquid — I’m reminded again just how single I am.

You’re alone, you’re alone, you’re alone, my Brita chants.

You’ll never find anyone to re-fill me ever againnnn.

You paid $29.99 to make already clean water even cleaner, and you don’t even use me. You deserve to die alone.

Enough already.

My Brita is a jerk. I think it’s probably time to just chuck the damn thing in the trash and settle for H2O straight from the tap. Because honestly, you get used to that tinny taste after a while and I really just need to silence the disparaging inner monologue that occurs every single time I open the fridge. Bye bye, Brita.

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