In Other Words
Created | Updated Jun 21, 2005
Greetings and salutations to you all, my fine hootoo readers! After a serious bout of no-free-time during my first year of college, it's time to whip out ol' In Other Words again (though less often) so I can tell you all a wonderful coming-of-age story about a young gal and her adventures living all alone...1
Yes, friends, bipeds, and various pseudopodal creatures, I--your young DZ--have finally ventured out into the big scary world to take care of myself. What?! You inevitably say to yourself, YOU? Living on your OWN? Surely you must be joking! But joking I am not, for your newly-19-year-old Darth Zaphod hath officially signed an official lease on an official apartment with a real working official refrigerator (that is currently holding officially nothing.)
My adventures began after my Freshman year ended, when I realized that going home wasn't an option because it is illegal for one to kill their mother--something that would have inevitably occurred. Moving day was a blur...a jumble of books, blankets, and various Monty Python posters. I shooed my mom out the door, anxious to start the non-stop-no-parental-supervision-24-hours-a-day party. Hooooah! I'm going to jump on the couch! And drink milk right out of the carton! And take a shower and TOTALLY LEAVE THE TOWEL ON THE FLOOR! *phew* It's going to be crazy wicked fun! It wasn't until my mom pulled away in the family van that I realized she's not planning on coming back to do my laundry and I deeply regretted not clinging to her leg and getting dragged home with her.
After the terrifying separation ordeal, things went pretty smoothly...that is, until we ran out of plates. The dishes started piling up, dust bunnies the size of a small gerbil began attacking the houseplants, all of which had died days ago because I had no idea that the green things lying around my mom's house actually got watered once in a while. My original grocery shopping trip stocked my refridgerator with frozen foods and enough caffeine to supply all the 13-year-old slumber parties in the western hemisphere. However, as is per usual, the contents of my refrigerator eventually dwindled down to ketchup, mayonnaise, and remnants of what used to be something vaguely similar to a tomato. No, wait, it's an onion. Lettuce? Apple? I have no freaking idea. Do I plan on going shopping for more food? Hell no. I'm currently locked in a heated battle of wills with my roommate over who will crack first, and I'll be damned if it's me.
It was, of course, my original plan to stretch the task of cleaning out as much as possible, hopefully to once per three month period. However, much to my own surprise I instead acquired an intense cleaning interest that probably stemmed from fear of a sudden and serious bout of a mutant viral illness, which I'm pretty sure is manifesting itself in the contents of my bathroom garbage can. I may be a pleasant hostess, but I am not above making my guests clean up their own freakin' messes. Case in point: a recent carpet pizza stain. ‘Oh...my...God. Is that--PIZZA?! You want to be killed, don't you! No, no excuses! Here's a sponge, washcloth, 409 cleaner, vaccuum, broom, and a spray bottle of Holy Water. NOW GET TO WORK!’ I still haven't figured out why so few people drop by to visit anymore...
Dividing household chores between my roommate and I can be about as simple as dividing a hotdog between a pack of wild boars--only the boars are slightly less hostile. Second case in point: an actual transaction from a rotten fruit retrieval mission.
ME: You get it.
ROOMIE: No, you get it.
ME: I'll pay you.
ROOMIE: How much?
ME: Ten bucks.
ROOMIE: Hell no.
ME: Ten bucks, a tank of gas, I'll clean the bathroom, and I'll stop eating your Froot Loops.
ROOMIE: You've been eating my Froot Loops?
ME: Just get it.
ROOMIE: Ok, ok ok..OH MY GOD IT'S EATING THROUGH MY HAND! I'M GOING TO DIE! OH MY--
ME: No way! Quick! Get some windex on it!
ROOMIE: I'm just messing, dude.
ME: Not cool, man. Not cool.
We're a loving, caring family. So now, a good month and a half into my alone-living adventure, things have plateaued. The fridge has stabilized at five Chicken Pot Pies, a jar of pickles, and a gallon of milk (drinkable? Considering its two-week stay duration, probably not.) The carpet has obtained a nice uniform layer of dirt that conceals the fact that it's an entirely different color underneath, and I've resigned to simply avoiding being at home. Oh, and now that I'm thinking about it, please for the love of God someone send me a toaster.
Your Little h2g2'er,
