Friday, October 12, 2007

What's that Lassie? Timmy's in the well?

I've witnessed filth the likes of which I have never seen. I haven't just witnessed it, but I've allowed it to move in. As you're aware I got myself a roommate. Well, not so much a roommate as a walking, talking reason for rubber gloves and bleach. To say that he is disgusting would be the understatement of the century, if not the millennium.

I try, with all my might, not to be made witness to his slovenly behavior, but sometimes I'm left with no alternative. For example, I opened his bathroom door to put a note on his mirror and was overcome with the most foul odor imaginable. He's got a bouquet all his own, that one. Let's see if I can describe it...sweaty shoes, dirty clothes, Irish Spring, old books, the natural funk of a gross boy, and the grime of not having cleaned that bathroom the entire time he's lived there. Voila! After I threw up in my mouth a little bit, I turned on the light. I peered in. Yeah, I'm NOT settin' foot in there. His sink, counter, and mirror were covered with shaving gel, toothpaste, garbage, toiletries, and blood. EW! I left the note on the outside of his door.

Then I had to go into his room. I've opened the door and tossed something in a time or two, but never went in because of all the clothes and garbage and whatever that is all over his floor. You quite literally can't see carpet. Well, he has recently decided that turning his alarm off if he's not going to be home isn't anything he has to do so 3 or 4 times now it has gone off without him there to turn it off. I listen to the beeping and try to gauge just how annoying it is. It gets progressively louder in case the owner of the clock is in a coma and didn't hear it for the first 15 seconds. It just kept beeping, and beeping, and beeping. Someone make it STOP!

Lola and I stood at the ready outside the door. I looked down at her and said, "I'm going in." She looked up as if equally fearful. I opened the door and looked in. Oh the agony of it all. I flipped on the light switch. Nothing. His lamp is apparently not plugged into the light switch. It was across the room. Since my night vision goggles were in the shop, I had to go in blind. I went in, hoping that Lola was in tune to her inner Lassie and that if I didn't make it back out she'd scratch her way out of the apartment and get help. She stood at the entrance of the room as I accomplished the mission, but I could just tell she was ready to provide backup.

Then there's just this last Sunday. I accidentally opened his kitchen cupboard because I'm used to my coffee grinder being in there. I go to close it in realization of my error and catch a glimpse of something unusual. Dishes. My dishes. In his cupboard. DIRTY! What the? Who does that? I put them in the sink and promptly wrote a note that pointed out his disgusting nature and told him to get out by the end of the month. Oh yeah, I did. He replied with a note saying that I would owe him $400 for moving costs if that was the case and said I needed to be more flexible and have I ever lived with anyone before as if his behavior is normal and I'm just unreasonable. I wrote back stating that I owe him nothing and he'll be moving by the end of the month or I would and he could finish out our lease on his own. Nothing else has been said.

I started to think maybe it was me. Maybe I'm just being impatient and making a big deal out of nothing. I decided I needed photographical evidence of which I speak so I can gauge my pettiness by other's reactions. I put Lola in her kennel. An innocent puppy need not be subjected to this. I got my camera and my rubber gloves. I said a prayer and I opened the door. Oh, sweet Jesus. I just snapped pictures left and right and got out as soon as I could. I loaded them on my computer and started to look at them. I felt dirty. I felt sick. I felt like crying. I emailed them to a friend. I emailed them to work. Today when I got to work I emailed them to more friends, to family, and almost to a priest so I could inquire about an exorcism. Apparently, I hadn't been clear when I said he was disgusting because everyone almost relived their breakfast.

I'm not sure which part was more disturbing. Could it be the small soap box on his counter that he's collecting his dirty Q-tips in? The blood on the counter that's mixed in with all the other dirt and grime? The toilet that I opened that revealed pink mold and stains and a smell that would make small children run crying to their mommies. No, I think it was the tub and the fact that the loofah he washes his body with every day sits by the drain in mold and funk.

This is another fine mess I've gotten myself into. My skin crawls at the mere sight of him so I've pretty much been hold up in my room anytime I'm home just so that I don't have to see him come through the door. Usually, though, he doesn't get home until I'm already in bed. Thank God for small miracles. Between this fiasco and family health issues, I've been a wee bit stressed. I didn't eat so very well this week, but fear not, I still managed a loss and am now at 29 pounds down. I refuse to let this freak of nature ruin what I've accomplished. I refuse to let him turn me into an eating machine again. He must go, or I must go, there's no alternative.