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Listen— you’re no formidable presence. You’re 22 and afraid of opening the kitchen cupboard. Afraid the potato you stashed there months ago and forgot has started sprouting god-knows-what there in the dark. (Kate, a radish of a human, told you they can do that.) You’ve been listening to a whole lotta Kendrick because you’re angry. But you’re angry because you’re heartbroken, so maybe you’re not all that angry. You put your potato thoughts to bed and climb in with them, and in your dreams, potatoes sprout purples and yellows, thick curling green vines that break open the kitchen cupboard and cover the counter, cover the linoleum, cover everything until your apartment complex becomes a potato park, and your city becomes a potato preserve. Your useless tuber of an ex beams at the sight of it all, and then recoils. Kendrick beams at the sight of it all, and then recoils. No photoshop, Kendrick, you mumble, moments before you wake. I’m no radish! But then you wake, and you lie there for a moment— afraid. You steel yourself. You tuck away your radish roots. And when, minutes later, you open the cupboard bravely, you do it wanting to wrench out the potato. You do it wanting to throw that asshole in the microwave, turn him into steaming potato soup. But the cupboard is empty. And Kendrick has left you.