Monthly Archives: April 2009

The Chronicles of Aurghville: The Toilet Paper Mysteries

Let me preface this by saying: I understand I’m not always good with other people. Especially stupid other people.

I know this. I am, after all, one of the founding leaders of The People Haters Club (we have party hats). But in recent years I’ve become a lot more tolerant of people in general (stop laughing). There are even specific people (my moms and three others) that I like.

But I still reserve a place in the darkest, scariest parts of my heart for stupid people. People like my flatmates.

They are making me crazy. Fine. Crazier.

Although there are many stories I could tell (and by stories I mean “shit I could complain about”) I would like to start at the most basic, the simplest thing that is making me want to burn the house down.

When I lived on my own (oh the days… how I miss those days… just me and the mold… and Frank my wee mousie… how I miss my old flatmates Frank and Mold… they were great…


That was the longest, most pointless aside ever mostly-contained in a set of over-strained parenthesis. Let me start The Chronicles again.

When I lived in my shoebox with Mold and Frank, it was easy to keep track of how quickly I went through the basics. After all, Mold only used up… I don’t actually know what mold needs to stay alive. I did use a lot of bleach trying to get rid of Mold, but that’s not really the same. And Frank was good about only trying to eat what I dropped until I blocked up his passageway.

This is still an aside. Damn.

Point is, when I was living on my own, I didn’t use up so much fucking toilet paper.

Yah, toilet paper. There is a serious toilet paper mystery in this house – we go through a frightening amount of it. It isn’t natural.

When I lived on my own, I went through about four rolls a month. Approximately. I wasn’t really counting… I’m doing some fairly solid guesswork. Now, there are four of us living in this flat, but we can go through four rolls in two days. Something about this is not right.

Now, I know some of it is going towards “natural uses”, as someone today obviously pooped (they very kindly left proof of their work in the toilet – a story for another Chronicle) and I would hope used some TP to clean up. But unless they are shitting themselves inside out on a daily basis, this does not account for the amount of missing toilet paper.

I suspect one or more of them may be selling it on the street for crack. I have no other explanation for how the hell so much of it goes so quickly. I just don’t know. Last Sunday I bought a total of 18 rolls of toilet paper. We are down to 6 already. SIX! In less than a week! What the freakshow, yo?

It makes me insane. Partially because once we run out, the other people living in Aurghville are too evil/lazy/vindictive/stupid to go and buy more. Surely it can’t be the price, as all anyone here ever picks up (myself included now that I realise how quickly they are snorting it) is the sand-paper grade shite from the pound shop which costs a pound for six rolls.

They can’t be bothered to buy it. They can’t be bothered to change the roll when they use the last of it. I learned today (the first time it happened I thought it may just be an oversight – nope, now it’s happened twice) that they can’t be bothered to give the inside of the toilet a wipe with the brush after laying an (apparently) sticky steamer.

In my new version of hell: this flat’s toilet is how I picture the toilet in hell to be.

I’m ranting. This isn’t a Chronicle – it’s a rant. But only because I’m angry. Angry and sad. Sad that I’m going to have to start buying my own stash of TP and storing it in my bedroom. I’m not contributing to their sick habits anymore. I moved in on March 8. I’ve purchased 34 rolls of toilet paper. If I was on my own, that would last me 8.5 months. I haven’t even lived here for three months yet.

I may never solve the Great Toilet Paper Mystery of Aurghville, but I can stop supporting it. And if I’m not sharing it, I’m going to go out and buy the most expensive toilet paper I can find. Maybe something made out of kittens.

Just remember to ask me for the “good stuff” if you are ever over visiting. You’ll have to, because all you’ll find in the Aurghville Toilet o’ Evil and Wrongness is the last scrapes of tissuey hope clinging to a bygone era of abundance and decadence in the form of a cardboard tube: an era when people replaced the empty loo roll.

Oh no! Another complaint… wait… this isn’t a complaint post!

So, I was going to write a complaint post.

Because it is 8:31 in the PM and I’m still at work. And staring at 2 or 3 more hours worth of work.

If I had slacked all day… if I had gone on an extended boozy lunch or even had an appointment, I would sit here and accept my late night with a smile on my face.

HA HA HA! Okay, even I couldn’t keep a straight face about that one. I would accept my fate but I would whine, cry and bitch about it. But it would be understandable why I was working so many hours (over 12 and counting already).

But you know what? I didn’t slack all day. I worked my balls off (metaphorically speaking, of course) and I still have all this freaking work to do. Aurgh!

So while I was walking back to the office (had to run an errand and come back) I was bemoaning my fate and wondering why life is so hard for me.

But then I thought about it… REALLY thought about it… and what do I care that I have to work late? I mean, there’s better food here than I have at home. I can crank my tunes (listening to The Whitest Boy Alive – going to see them with Step-Step tomorrow!) without having to worry about bothering the Denizens of Aurghville (read: flatmates). I can even update my damned blog.

I suppose that if there was someone waiting at home for me (cue violin music here), even a pet (get yer hankies ready) I would be more upset. But there’s no reason for me to care about not being at home. I like my room in Aurghville, but it doesn’t really feel like home anyway. So, yah.

So, yah… I don’t really care about working late. It’ll be nice to get some things actually done and out of my hair tonight so I can relax about going to the gig tomorrow. But if you want to feel sorry for me anyway… I accept your pity. I love it.

>Laundromat Love

>First; learning.

Apparently a “self-service laundry facility” is called a laundrette in the UK. This is wrong. The British people should be chastised for making laundry sound feminine. A-holes. Although I don’t think Yanktown, Canader and Oz are doing much better when you consider how goofy the spelling of laundromat is. Do you say “laundrOHmat” or “laundrEEmat”? Okay, now I’m just being bitter ’cause I had to look up the spelling. And I’ve learned that I was saying it wrong my entire life. Let’s go back to picking on the sexist British instead of thinking about my lack of spelling abilities, shall we?

Or should we just get on with the bloody blog post already? Okay… you the boss.

When was the last time you were at a laundromat? Perhaps you go all the time and will think I’m batty for saying this: I enjoyed it.

I haven’t gone in years… to the point that I don’t clearly remember the last time. I think I was still living in Quesnel, so that would have been a million years ago or so (give or take).

I decided to take it to the ‘mat as not only did I have a pantsload of laundry to do, but my new place has no dryer. What’s with that?


Just another reason not to live in Aurghville too much longer. Sigh.


I don’t mind doing a load and hanging it up – I did it in Korea for two years. But here that means giving up every last millimetre of floor space I have in my room (there simply isn’t any other space – see note on “Aurghville”, above). But I’m willing to do it, if it is within reason. But hanging up my bedding? L.A.M.E. x 3, yo:

1. I’ve only got one set of the damned things. What am I supposed to sleep on? What am I supposed to sleep under?

2. They would take up more space than I gots to hang them.

3. They wouldn’t get that snuggy dryer-fresh aura about them.

So I sucked it up this evening and hauled it to the ‘mat, which was hopping busy. Apparently I wasn’t the ony slothing my way through Zombie Jesus’ Birthday Weekend Bananza*. It looked like every geezer in East London had laundry to do tonight.

Good thing there were washing machines available ’cause I had enough dirty goods to fill three of them (without overfilling… there were so many machines just packed full, which doesn’t really work). And at dryer time some nice old guy ‘splained to me how the machine worked.


True store: I just said “dryer time” in my head the same way a particular MC used to say “Hammer Time”. Yes, I did.


The problem was that I needed two machines – I filled one with my two loads of clothes and it was the bedding that I really needed to dry before I left. There were two machines that were going to come free. There were two of us waiting. Awesome! One was about two minutes ahead of the other. So I told the other girl waiting to go ahead. Well… the person who was using “my” machine put more money in and effed everything up. AURGHPANTS! But then that lovely person who I “gave” the dryer to suggested that we share the machine and dried all the sheets at the same time. How rad is that?

So I was feeling the neighbourhood love at the laundromat tonight and laundry was the least stressful it has been in ages. And with how stressful everything else seems to be in my life at the moment… I dig the laundromat most supreme. Rock.

*I know a few people personally that could stumble across that blasphemy that I would apologise to, but a) you should expect this sort of malarkey from me by now, b) I’m probably going to hell whether or not I refer to JC as a Zombie, c) I think Jesus would think it was funny, d) I earned back any points I lost with that awesomely correct punctuation, and e) hell anyway.

>Signs of (in)compatibility

>I could never be close to someone who couldn’t at least be slightly amused at the juvenile humour of your average bumper sticker. Even though they are the lowest form of wit (sitting well below both ‘yer ma’ jokes and puns), sometimes it feel good to laugh at things that aren’t supposed to be funny unless you are ten (see also: farts).

Then again, I can’t imagine having much in common with someone who could unironically attach a “Horn broken – watch for finger” bumper sticker to their vehicle either. What would you talk to them about?

>Unnecissary pants parts

>So last week I bought myself some new underpants. And I have to ask: Is there any feeling the world quite as nice as putting on a new pair of underpants?

More to the point, the pants I bought were red and white boy-style shorts from American Apparel and they are deliciously comfortable. However, I don’t find the penis flap on the front of them entirely necessary.

In fact, I don’t think for me it is necessary at all. Yah. I don’t need that.


>“Think outside the box, collapse the box, and take a fucking sharp knife to it.”