My story begins with this mentality. Her mentality. That’s right, I’m talking about a girl. A girl that can’t clean up after herself. It makes me worry for her future husband and kids. Women are supposed to be the more tidy sex. So how this happened is totally beyond me.
The first offense was the plethora of tomato pieces that I discovered on my (borrowed) suitcase. I’m so sorry there isn’t enough space for you to prepare your food in the room. I mean they provided you with a desk, but what were they thinking? I guess my suitcase is a more suitable cutting board. Yeah, everything from America is multipurpose. Cool, right?!
When I finally got the guts to approach her about it — I’m not typically confrontational – she provided a sincere apology, but it wasn’t accompanied by an offer to clean my suitcase! Months later, I have gathered the courage to scrub the disgusting food off my sister’s property. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t think tomatoes in general are disgusting. Only tomatoes that have dehydrated on something never meant to be touched by food. Like my hairbrush.
I understand the desire to cook, but after discovering that there is no way in hell I am going to pass my accounting course and hearing some disturbing news from my sister, I didn’t need to see the results of my roommate’s passion on my possessions. I returned to my room after being metaphorically punched in the stomach to find, wait for it, wait for it, can you guess? TOMATO CHUNKS. On. my. toothbrush. On. my. hairbrush. It took my last reserves of energy to keep myself from dying on the spot. I looked in the mirror for what must have been an entire five minutes, just watching myself seethe in anger. You know, it’s kind of scary to watch how your anger distorts your face. When I calmed down, I alerted her of the situation at hand in a timid voice, “Hey, um… I just found food in my hairbrush… Do you think next time you cook, you could be more careful with the cleaning?”
Once again, she was extremely apologetic. Once again, no offer to clean my poisoned belongings. So I did it. But I had honestly lost my shit at that point. Who couldn’t see the burning red chunks of destruction left in her wake? I vowed that the next offense would be the last. I would really let her have a piece of my mind if she was that careless again. But I never could have prepared myself for what followed.
A couple days ago, I went to the bathroom and I stumbled upon something brown just chillin on the toilet seat. I hoped with all my might that it was food because I was used to encountering it all around the room – by the fridge, on my desk, on my various brushes, ingrained in my suitcase, plastered to the bathroom floor – but it wasn’t. This mysterious brown mass was indeed what belongs in a toilet. But how did it get on the seat? Maybe I have no soul, but I just can’t understand how anyone, and I mean anyone – babies, trained cats, and especially adults – can miss when taking a dump. It’s a huge hole just the right size so your ass doesn’t fall in. And when you know that the toilet is always clean because your awesome roommate makes everything spotless, there’s no reason to hover the way you would in a port-a-potty. Nonetheless, I couldn’t bring this incident up to her. It would be too embarrassing for the both of us. Sometimes you just have to let things go.