Why, oh why did I sign a nine month lease?
I am now stuck here for another six months.
Why? Let me try and remember so I don’t feel like a total dumbass.
I didn’t want to move, AGAIN, not till the end of year anyway.
I’d made it through almost a year here and thought I could hack another one.
Rent couldn’t be raised within this period.
Um, yeah.
Then we got broken into, and my tolerance for the intolerable flatmate deteriorated even further.
I clean up his messes. That’s the thing, living with someone with low (or no) standards of hygiene and cleanliness. It gets to the point where I just can’t stand it, and do it. I no longer ask him to do ANYTHING. There is no point. Once every few months I lose it and he does a load of dishes or so. And then deliberately, pointedly, mentions to me “Did you see I did the dishes?” Like he deserves a gold star. Like that even begins to make up for all the chores he hasn’t done since we moved in. Although, my period between freakouts is decreasing. More like every month or so. I will go into the kitchen or out the back door and stand there and fume, or cry, and feel a breakdown coming on. Usually I then exchange terse words with BF, and end up storming out and going for a very long, angry walk.
I will never be a head of a flat again. I’m not cut out for it. I can’t stand the chasing money, the cleaning up after everyone else’s drinking/parties, the general cleaning, the being painted as an evil bitch for trying to maintain a semblance of cleanliness and hygiene in the house.
I just don’t understand. I understand that vacuuming, sweeping and mopping are not priorities for some. But how, when I so frequently go around cleaning various rooms and picking up assorted crap, can said flatmate not even offer to help? It’s even better when he asks “what I’m doing?” No, he simply steps around me, even making me feel like I have to apologise for getting in his way. He often slips on the wet floor when I’ve been mopping. No sympathy from me.
There are only so many times I can pick up milk bottles, juice packets, chicken bones, greasy bakery bags and mandarin peels from all over the house before I totally lose it. Living with other people is not the same as living with your mother. There must be compromise. By no means do I expect to have anything resembling a clean house. No, that’s a pipe dream while we live here. I want everyone to pick up after themselves – a seemingly simple, basic ask. I don’t expect things done up to my standards or within what I might call an acceptable timeframe. But they need to be done, AT SOME POINT. Which they never are, unless I do it myself. Why do I have to wait until he feels like it, or gets around to it (which is just a fob off?) Why should he not get up and pick up three day old food scraps rather than leaving them festering for months?
He does not: do dishes, wipe up spills, put food scraps / rubbish in the bin, clean the stove, clean the oven, clean the fridge or clear out his smelly food cupboard, take out bottles for recycling, take out rubbish, take out bins, clean the toilet or shower, sweep or mop, vacuum, clean up after shaving, clean up his cigarette butts, or clean up the remains of the vomit he spattered down his bedroom and our lounge windows.
In short, he does nothing but exist. He lives here, makes messes everywhere he goes, and leaves them where they are.
How hard is it to show a little respect to those who live with you? When you break things, replace them – like my guitar strings, our large bowls, BF’s prized Jack Daniels glasses – as unbreakable as glass can get, but they couldn’t withstand the forces of evil flatmate. (Probably impossible to replace, as they came with a special Christmas hamper) There are piles of dirty dishes in his room. My dishes. Over half of our bowls have gone missing, even taking into account the stacks he has accumulated. I have nothing to eat my cereal out of in the mornings.
He has always paid rent on time, the one redeeming feature he has. Bills, on the other hand, have fallen behind.
Finding another flatmate? I dread the thought. And doubt the feasibility of actually finding a willing soul.
Ah, sigh. End rant.
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