Movin' In

I returned to college last Monday, and have good reason for not posting anything original in the past week, apart from the post below this one, which served just to prove a point, and will probably be gone soon. Then again, it might not go. Whatever.

Monday, I moved in and helped P (for the sake of anonymity) shift his stuff into the apartment. He'd arrived an hour or so before I did, and took the biggest bedroom in the place. No problem, I don't really care about how big the room I inhabited would be, it wasn't all that important. Being greeted by broken shards of glass from a beer bottle while carrying a heavy cardboard box that is almost falling to pieces, containing kitchen utensils isn't all that much fun. Barring this, and the fact that there were only one-and-a-half bathrooms in the place, it was reasonably nice.

We've all heard horror stories of room mates. Mine isn't a horror story per se, but it could well become one in the future, depending on how things progress. P had an interview with a company the following morning and decided to spend that night at his girlfriend's, where the Internet had already been set up. We bade him good night and good luck. He returned the following morning to brush, shower, change and then escape. We weren't to see much of him that day. Or the next few, come to think of it. He was never there.

Well, during the day, classes and all that, so it's fine. At night? He's not slept one night in his bedroom, nor has he unpacked. Who cares, you ask. Just mind your business and leave others to theirs. I would, and I don't really give a damn where he spends his time. However, there is the issue of encroachment. In terms of ones things. He made tea on Monday, and left the vessel with the wet tea leaves in there. On Saturday, I happened to notice that mould had begun to inhabit this vessel. Disgusted, I threw it in the dustbin. I left. He entered, after now-normal nightly sojourn to his chick's and picked the thing out of the garbage, and promised to clean it up. He then made an omlette, leaving cut onions for all to smell and admire. Following which he left the omlette pan on the range. Then he ate, leaving behind an unwashed plate and a host of other soiled kitchen things. He left.

I hope that you have kept in mind his promise to wash the tea pot. I found it the same day in the sink, unwashed, mould flourishing. I cleaned up the other dishes and left, still annoyed and more and more disgusted. Late at night, after I returned, I found his closet doors in the hall; apparently, he didn't approve of them in his room. Well, I'm not sure of your feelings towards this, but I was pissed. I use the hall to entertain guests, however lame that might sound, and the sight of two wooden closet doors reclining against the far wall does my temper no good.

As he had not spent a single night in the apartment, he saw no reason to unpack. Again, your sense of fairness seeks you to question me, 'Onnakku enna, whether he unpacks or not? Why this invidious reservation towards his habits?' OK, fair enough. He doesn't need to unpack. I haven't either. Not fully, that is. 'Ah, so you shouldn't be talking,' you say. Hey, I kept my shit in my room. Not spread out through out the house. His suitcase is in the hallway. Taking into account that he has appropriated the largest bedroom, I see no reason why it shouldn't remain within.

On Sunday, J & I, tired of this nonsense, decided to 'take it to the next level.' We left Post-It notes in strategic locations urging him to renounce his wicked ways, and redress the situation. Had just 'speak' been added to that, this would've been a Julius Caesar moment. I was rude in the notes, and so was J. 'Put the closet doors in your room, NOW!' said one. 'Leaving?? Turn of the A/C NOW!' was another. I hope you can understand the desperation that drove us to this extreme.

Oh, and he also leaves the A/C on when he leaves the apartment. Even when no one else is home.