So, basically it’s come to this: I have to move. It is either a: move or b: bring about Armageddon. And because I haven’t seen Transformers 2 yet, I don’t want the world to end just now. So, moving it is.
This begins less like a chronicle and more of an update on previous stories. I can’t even bring myself to take more pictures; it is impossible to photograph my simmering anger and rising bile. And truly nothing will outdo the photo of the moldy toothbrushes. Not even the moldy body scrubber. Which is gross… but I should have maybe started there and worked up to the toothbrushes. Move up the grossometer instead of all over it.
Something did happen yesterday that pushed me to a new level. I left a note. Oh yes, a note. Not quite a passive-aggressive note (yet) but I’m getting there. But first: the updates.
The Toilet Paper
I finally did break down and just buy my own loo roll. It is still aggravating that I have to cart TP from my room to the bathroom every time I have to tinkle, but it is less annoying than buying 40 rolls of paper every week. And here’s what I’ve learned: the toilet paper over-usage was definitely not me. I bought 4 rolls in the first week of May. I’m not even a third of the way through the third roll. So from March to May I bought over thirty rolls. From May to June I’ve used three. My math isn’t as good as it used to be but I know this: that don’t add up, yo.
The Pube Trail
There hasn’t been a repeat of the trail but there has been another grouping of mystery hair that looked suspiciously like a pube pile on the bathroom windowsill. Nice.
The Moldy, Evil, Horrid Toothbrushes
There are fewer toothbrushes (two of the citizens appear to be holidaying somewhere) and the water has been dumped out of the jar. But get this – they dumped the water but didn’t actually clean the jar. So it is still crusty and moldy. And there are still toothbrushes in it. GAAA!!
So, there you are, updated. But there have been new bathroom sorrows…
I’ve had to take all my shower stuff out of there and am (like all my food and toilet paper) keeping it in my room because someone has started using it. Which I don’t support.
I know this because I’m vaguely OCD about certain things. I always close the lids on stuff. I always stand things up. I always (I probably shouldn’t confess this part) keep the shampoo to the left of the conditioner* because I use the shampoo first. It isn’t that I like to be that organised, I’m just that lazy. Keeping the shampoo and conditioner like that means I don’t have to waste my brain thinking about which bottle to grab first in the morning.
Anyway… if someone moves my stuff, I know about it. And whichever turd used my shampoo was too dumb to even TRY and be sly about it. They left the shampoo laying down on my shelf, open and dripping onto the shelf below it. Well done, Turbo. So I gave in and put everything into a container and cart it back and forth every morning.
Last night I went in the bathroom to use the toilet and there was about 3 inches of standing water in the tub. Ace. I can’t believe someone took a bath in there. I cleaned it about two weeks ago and had to use a sandblaster (or a brush, whatevs) to get the bloody grime off. Not just soap scum, not just lime build up, but grime. It was grayish and… well, and just wrong. I couldn’t leave it and my feet touch that so I cleaned.
And before you think I was being squeamish: I wear flipflops all summer in London. In the dirty east end of London. On the way back from a gig with Stefanie I stepped in a puddle that was mostly cigarette-butt soup (and God knows what else) and shrugged it off. I’m not squeamish about getting my feet dirty – the tub was actually that gross. So I cleaned it.
Anyway, back to the bathwater remains. Now, when you live with a bunch of pigs (What is a bunch of pigs called? They aren’t a herd, are they?) you don’t want to stick your hand in the water that one of them has been steeping in to get the plug out. I shook my head, shuddered, and went back into my room where I’m sure I was busy doing something cool**.
I went back in around 11:30 for my bedtime pee (I sleep badly and try to avoid anything that could wake me up, including my bladder) and the water was still in the tub. I had the feeling that whichever delayed citizen had decided to soak in that gleep was going to just leave the water in there all night. Which would mean that it would still be there in the morning when I went to shower. Which would mean that I would either have to stick my hand in there to get the plug out or risk standing in citizen soup whilst trying to shower. Sick.
So I did the only thing I could when I don’t want to actually interact with someone: I left a note. I wasn’t rude. I wasn’t friendly. I didn’t address it (even though I knew who it mostly likely was… as do you). I just said that if the water was still there the next day, I would be very unhappy.
I didn’t say that “unhappy” was my own, personal euphemism for “full of murderous rage and likely to slaughter you in your sleep”. Besides, I didn’t have enough room on the post-it note.
Ten minutes later, while lying in “bed” (read: sofa-bed-thing-from-Ikea) I heard one of the citizens trying to bail water out of the tub. I put my earplugs in and fell asleep with a smile on my face.
The next morning I went into the bathroom and read the note the citizen had left. They couldn’t get the plug out normally and eventually had to use a knife to pry it out. And that they were going to “call someone” to come and look at it. Wha? As I was standing there, reading the note, she came into the bathroom and explained further the difficulty they had draining the bathwater.
Apparently, it was her mom that had the bath. Ew. And, excuse me? It just goes to show that we are products of our parents. My moms wouldn’t even walk in the bathroom door if she was bursting – I’m fairly certain she would hold it and pee somewhere else. But the little cretin’s mother was fine sitting in our bathtub of grime and evil. EW EW EW. At least now I understand where her retardation comes from a little more. Apparently it is genetic.
And as for “calling someone”… the citizen told me that she would get someone to look at the plug because it obviously wasn’t working properly. I suggested that she goes out and buys a rubber replacement plug for 59p and save some hassle. The look on her face was priceless; she hadn’t even considered that an option.
So, that’s the bathroom updated. That’s my living situation in a nutshell. Although at this point, I would rather live in a nutshell. At the bottom of a garbage can. With nine mice and some maggots. Because I can’t stand this much more. And I’ve only told you about the bathroom… I’ve not mentioned (potentially yet) the kitchen. Or the hallway. Or the garden. Or the garbage. Or how some dipshit constantly leaves their key in the lock so you can’t use it to get in the house and have to knock instead.
Hopefully it is all only for a few more weeks. Once I get a new job I’ll have a much better idea of where I will want to live. And then I can start the process of de-turding myself from this situation. The only con to this that I foresee is what will I blog about if I don’t live with the world’s most inconsiderate flatmates?
*Remember when everyone called conditioner “cream rinse”? Or was that just my moms?
**Probably not. Sims 3 came out last week and I waste all my time playing that lately. Not. cool.