As I type this from the extremely crappy computer in my apartment complex's "library," the screen keeps flashing yellow, then a sickly pale sunshine color, and then back to the plain bright hurt-your-eyes glare. Why I pay $300 a month for this dump is beyond me.
But that is beside the point. The point today is this: Parents really need to teach their kids some life skills before they leave home and move on to greener pastures, such as apartments with other girls they can torment. I have been absolutely amazed at the number of roommates I've had who never learned how to do the dishes, make a meal, or clean up after themselves.
Today, I got home to discover brown slime all over the countertops, not to mention a solitary long black hair sunning itself on the crumb-speckled stove. I suppose this shouldn't seem like much, since there is already bright Kool-aid pink staining the countertops and usually white powder that resembles anthrax spilled over the entire corner countertop. An apple sticker is plastered to the sink, which contains smelly rags. The floor is, as usual, disgusting, and a stale shrink-wrapped cinnamon roll is piled on top of the mound of dirty dishes.
This is my life in glamorous Salt Lake City. And you know what? Ordinarily, I would clean that. I bought Clorox wipes and strategically placed them under the sink with the rest of the cleaning supplies gathering dust. I brought more dishrags from home one weekend, hoping that it would inspire my roommates to grab a new one when the old one began smelling like it had grown barnacles. I am living with three other girls. You would think that one of them would have been taught, during twenty+ years, to wipe up a spill or to clean something with Comet once in a while.
No. They have not. So the kitchen is dirty...until, once again, I clean it all up on Saturday. But at least I'll have some great tunes to blast out while I'm doing it. If I can't sleep while it's dirty, than neither will they. The war is on.