I'll get back to the Flemington saga another time.
Every so often somebody cooks something in this place that smells like fucking death. It always has me checking my own garbage to make sure it's free of old, rotting greens. Then I begin to wonder if someone died in their apartment and are just rotting away. That's not outside the realm of possibility. Not everybody in this building is young and hip like me (okay, I'm neither of those things, but play along, will you?).
I had a talk with a friend of mine today, and we found ourselves on opposite sides of the same, ridiculous behavior. I mentioned that I had peanut butter and ginger ale for breakfast because I was too lazy to wash a bowl and a spoon. In case you're wondering, I used my finger as a delivery device for the peanut butter.
My friend on the other hand (sans peanut butter) said that she will go out of her way to not use clean dishes, as they are transubstantiated into dirty dishes. She also mentioned she would never use her finger to eat peanut butter as there might be bacteria on hand (pun definitely intended. And yes, my hand was freshly washed).
As of this writing, we are both starving to death in our own apartments in a city filled with food, yet there is no possible way to eat it.
No comments:
Post a Comment