In Living Is The Very Life Of Life

First, I hate it when my milk decides that it is Shaun White and ramps off the top cereal flake to land all over the counter.

That said, let me continue. My life is a constant battle. But not with anything cool. My enemies are dirt and hairs and disorder. I do epic battle with my apartment on a daily basis. Whether it's the half-full gallon of milk thrown IN THE TRASH CAN, or seemingly endless stream of errant hairs from my roommate-in-denial's head, I'm afraid I'm losing the war.

The Kitchen.
New stains appear on the floor daily from substances unknown. The pile of dishes seems to never end, constantly regenerated by some malevolent force. And no matter how many times I move them to the broken right sink so that I can wash mine in the left, they teleport magically back to the left. The microwave looks like someone deposited a wild chipmunk inside and pressed the potato preset button. Chili explosion. And I have to run the disposal every time I use the sink. I don't know what is being washed down the drain. Maybe chunks of mud. No matter how much I sweep, wipe, or throw away, it comes back the next day to thwart me again.

The Bathroom.
It's like living with an 87 year-old golden retriever with a shedding problem. Except the hairs are longer. And a dog would have better hygiene. My roommate seeks to cover his balding by keeping his hair inordinately long. He does this to great success. If you saw him on the street you would never guess his dark secret. But venture into the bathroom and a scene of madness and bloodshed would break upon you with crushing horror. He doesn't lose tiny, blonde, short guy hairs like the rest of us. He loses 3 inch brown bristles. Not to mention the hairs he intentionally shaves off his face which accumulate in that no-man's-land behind the faucet. Also the bathmat is always on the floor when I walk in, no matter how many times I hang it up after I leave. It is also magic. And no matter how much I spray with the shower head, scrub with sponges, and nag, it is there every morning like some insipid plague. All I can do is chant a chorus of "Damn it, dude!"


The Living Room.
The living room is actually fine. Soooo... yeah. It stays pretty clean. It's actually kind of nice in there.

But none of this changes the fact that my milk has major steez.

[Keep following Lords and Ladies, all.]