Oh boy, there’s a rant brewing…
I can’t wait to move out.
It’s happened again. My parents left town yesterday afternoon and my siblings have turned the upstairs into a pigsty. Woke up this morning, went to eat breakfast; no room at the table amidst textbooks and used newspaper to even set my cereal bowl down.
Stack of dishes by the sink, stack of dishes in the sink. Oh, did I mention I wasn’t home for dinner yesterday? None of this mess, be it on the table or in or near the sink, is mine. My significant other and I went for some dinner and some hanging out, get back several hours later, and boom: it’s remarkable how much filth my siblings can accumulate in one evening.
Anyways. Went to eat in the living room and found newspaper on the den floor and on the coffee table, plus some garbage (a nice compliment to the discarded banana peel left by the computer). I clear a space for myself on the floor, spread out the newspaper just recovered from the mailbox to read and to use as a catch-all (mustn’t slop on the carpet, folks), and eat my breakfast.
Finished, I return the paper to its original order and place it neatly where it should go, carefully rinse my bowl and stack it by the sink — a grain of sand on a beach, to mine eye. Returning to my basement dwelling, I reflect on the sharp contrast apparent: my basement is clean and maintained; the upstairs fell to pieces in the absence of my parents and in the care of my kindred in under twenty-four hours.
It’s unbelievable. My description does injustice to the carnage the upstairs bears testament to. Oh! And the best part? My siblings have the gall time and again to spit and hiss and moan that I never contribute to cleaning up. Bzzzt. Wrong, kiddies. I clean up messes that I contribute to. It’s called responsibility. Look it up some time.
End rant.