At a time like this, when I should really be studying for my stats quiz, I'm too distracted by my roommate's astounding inability to do simple things like comprehend basic bathroom hygiene to cram more lecture notes into my brain.
I may have mentioned before that my roommate once left out a dirty dish on the sink for over a month. Not just any dish. A dish that had previously held some kind of curry. Now don't get me wrong; I like curry. A lot. But curry that's left over from a meal, sitting in a dish, under a few inches of fetid tap water? Not a fan.
Anyway, I bore that for over a month, taking refuge at the boyfriend's on the weekends, where he and his roommate understand that dishes go in the kitchen sink, not the bathroom sink. After giving the roommate plenty of time to redeem herself (in which she failed to do so), I shot her a message on Facebook and was all, "Hey, remember that dirty bowl living on the countertop? Could you take care of that? Like...now?"
If she gets to be disgusting, then I get to be passive aggressive. I see no reason to give up my scant rights.
She did end up taking care of the dirty dish after week 6. Thank God. I was starting to feel twinges of anxiety, like whatever was living inside the bowl had evolved eyeballs and was judging me every time I was naked in the bathroom.
Then, a few weeks ago, I discovered that someone had clawed through the last of the toilet paper on the roll and, sitting on the incredibly scummy bathroom floor, was a somewhat-new, formerly-clean roll. It boggled my mind to imagine the previous toilet occupant rising from his or her porcelain throne, walking the two steps it takes to get to the cabinet under the sink, removing the fresh roll of toilet paper from its plastic packaging, and then planting it on the filthy floor instead of mounting it safely on its intended holder. Why the missing step? Why subject everyone who uses that roll from now on to cringing at the nasty crap that it picked up on the side?
I assumed it was the suitemate's boyfriend. He seems to be a grade A douchebag--I say "seems" because I make it a point not to talk to him. Some may say that this is judgmental of me, but I make it a personal goal to limit my interactions with douchebags, so maybe it's his fault for seeming like such a giant, gaping one. I hear them screaming at each other in her room late at night, and then she starts crying, and then he yells at her for crying, and then someone slams the door, and then I feel sorry for her. I'd cry if I had a douchebag boyfriend who put perfectly good toilet paper on the floor, too.
Except tonight, when I was diligently trying to study for tomorrow's quiz, I heard the bathroom door open on her side of the suite (there are two doors into the bathroom, one that connects to my room and the other to hers). I heard her use the toilet, flush, then go to the cabinet and remove the last roll of toilet paper from the package. I waited to hear the twang of her dismounting the tp holder (it's got a creaky spring) as she reloaded that shiny fresh roll for all to enjoy, but instead, I just heard the door on her side slam shut.
Really?
I decided to wait a few minutes before going in to check, under the pretense of collecting tap water for my late night snack of instant ramen. Indeed, staring guiltily up at me from the dingy bathroom floor was my poor roll of toilet paper, painstakingly purchased from Meijer. I sighed a deep sigh from the bottom of my soul. Then I sighed again, a little less deeply, because the bathroom did not smell good.
Now, loading toilet paper onto the roll is a little more difficult than usual in our bathroom. Our toilet paper holder employs the use of a stubbornly strong spring which is hard to compress enough in order to squeeze it out of its designated indents in the wall. I remember the first time I reloaded the toilet paper, the entire tube flew out of my hand and fell apart. It took me several days to recuperate from the disappointment in myself that the scenario generated.
However, this is not an excuse to not reload toilet paper when it is due. Nor is patent college student laziness.
You have thumbs, motherfucker. Use them.
I feel another passive aggressive Facebook message is due.
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