The Rice

Tonight, the rice was there again.
It had appeared in the wastebin, stinking.
I hadn't cooked rice in several weeks, and if I did, I sure wouldn't have thrown it away.
OK, perhaps if it was too much and had gone bad before I could eat it.
These things can happen if you live alone, it's no shame.
But I wouldn't let it lie rotting in the wastebin.
Especially when the plastic bag sometimes has little holes where the putrid juice comes out, this is just disgusting.
You may be wondering why I am pondering this.
Do I have some memory disorder, or what?
No, I believe my memory is fine.
My roommate did it.
But, you see, I live alone.
This is a bit crazy.
I used to have a roommate, though.
He has moved out some time ago, but he did these kind of things.
Throwing old wet food in the wastebin, and when you come home the whole place stinks. Yuck.
When I had asked him, he denied.
But who else should have caused this?
Did he expect me to believe that the rice appeared on its own?
Granted, now I believe that kind of stuff, now after I've seen it several times.
No, he caused it. Because that's when it started.
And now my trash can is haunted.
Every few weeks, I draw a breath and catch the faint smell.
My suspicions are confirmed when I open the lid and the stench intensifies.
Then I see it, festering accusingly at the bottom of the bag.
It seems to say:
How many starving people would have been glad to eat me, but now I am stinking, Oh, how I'm stinking!