Escape From St. Andy's
This was it, Move Out Day.
It only seemed like yesterday that I first moved in. Of course, it always seems like yesterday when you're only thinking of Point A and Point B, and disregard everything in between. Yesterday was an all-out cleaning day, a desperate fight to reverse a whole year of passive littering.
Being the only vacant slot left on the cleaning roster, I was in charge of carpet, walls, and furniture. I thought I lucked out since I didn't have to do the bathroom, nor the kitchen, which none of it is my mess because I always clean up after myself there. Perhaps most ominous is the refrigerator, whose contents have seen the beginning of time. Of particular infamy is the vegetable crisper, whose contents are anything but crisp, but more like a primordial soup. Had the fridge not been cold, I'm sure several new species of multicellular life forms would emerge from there. I thought that was the worst part of cleaning...
...until I started work on the living room sofas. The cushions are always cleaner-side-up, but in this case, they're both equally horrible. I had to scrub off what must surely be cum stains from one cushion; something this tenacious can only be issued forth from a man - only I'm not that man, because I don't really get that lucky. Oh God, I'm sure an entire season of CSI can be based on these cushions alone.
There is, however, something that I DID contribute to in the living room, and that was the Recyclables Mountain, which I took it upon myself to move. That's probably because I almost never cook, but rather reheat things from cans and the like. Carrying a huge garbage bag full of plastic milk bottles with caps intact, I was horribly tempted to stuff it into the already-full trash compactor, just for the euphoria of hearing them explode with an acoustic experience probably reminiscent of fireworks, or the wringing of bubble wrap of an amplitude multiplied by a factor of 100,000.
Sadly, the hippy inside of me told me to put the bag of bottles next to the already-full recycling bin instead. Dammit. We all have some hippy inside each and every one of us, and it is up to ourselves to fight our inner hippies. Otherwise, every country in the world will register a negative gross national product. I have failed and now I'm ashamed.
Among other treasures left behind in my living room are a tall cylindrical traffic pylon, and a roadwork in progress sign with a 30km/h speed limit on the bottom. They've been here all along, so some drunkass predecessor to the suite must've "borrowed" them while stumbling home through a construction site. ("Aaaah dunno, they just follllowed me hoooooome! *HICCUP*")
The best course of action was to leave them at a nearby construction site and hope that the work crew will adopt them, but once again, I was tempted to use the legally-mandated power vested in these relics to my amusement. After all, wherever I place that sign, traffic will be forced to slow down considerably, so the best road would probably be a high-traffic area like Westbrook Mall. Fuck you, Inner Hippie! I won't yield to you this time!!! Screw it, these things are just too heavy to carry that far...but the feeling of power in my hands is just too overwhelming...arrrgh, but somewhere there is probably an embattled construction worker out there wondering why the hell are cars flying past him at 100km/h. And so ends my internal struggle.
Having left these artifacts at the construction site next door last night, where they can find a new home with a loving family, there was nothing left in the living room of concern. This only leaves the walls and my bedroom. Even though I began the cleaning up process weeks ago, my room still required a painstaking weekend to clean up; the walls weren't too bad, although I was sure they made the walls white to make he cleaning experience miserable.
So having finally done cleaning, it was finally time to get the community coordinator to check my work. He's an alright guy, but seeing how his room is CONSTANTLY spotless, one can only imagine that his idea of socially interacting with others consists of wiping the furniture. In other words, I expected the comco's inspection to be a nightmare since he would probably hold me to the same exact standards of cleanliness that he instills in his own room.
It turned out not to be that bad - other than a few small things he wanted me to fix, like the dust on the blind slats, he was okay with my room. Finally finishing off the work and getting a pass, I was finally free to go.
With my vehicle loaded up, I headed off to a temporary future of living under the dominating eyes of my parents.
Arthur waiting for me to get into the packed car and drive.
It only seemed like yesterday that I first moved in. Of course, it always seems like yesterday when you're only thinking of Point A and Point B, and disregard everything in between. Yesterday was an all-out cleaning day, a desperate fight to reverse a whole year of passive littering.
Being the only vacant slot left on the cleaning roster, I was in charge of carpet, walls, and furniture. I thought I lucked out since I didn't have to do the bathroom, nor the kitchen, which none of it is my mess because I always clean up after myself there. Perhaps most ominous is the refrigerator, whose contents have seen the beginning of time. Of particular infamy is the vegetable crisper, whose contents are anything but crisp, but more like a primordial soup. Had the fridge not been cold, I'm sure several new species of multicellular life forms would emerge from there. I thought that was the worst part of cleaning...
...until I started work on the living room sofas. The cushions are always cleaner-side-up, but in this case, they're both equally horrible. I had to scrub off what must surely be cum stains from one cushion; something this tenacious can only be issued forth from a man - only I'm not that man, because I don't really get that lucky. Oh God, I'm sure an entire season of CSI can be based on these cushions alone.
There is, however, something that I DID contribute to in the living room, and that was the Recyclables Mountain, which I took it upon myself to move. That's probably because I almost never cook, but rather reheat things from cans and the like. Carrying a huge garbage bag full of plastic milk bottles with caps intact, I was horribly tempted to stuff it into the already-full trash compactor, just for the euphoria of hearing them explode with an acoustic experience probably reminiscent of fireworks, or the wringing of bubble wrap of an amplitude multiplied by a factor of 100,000.
Sadly, the hippy inside of me told me to put the bag of bottles next to the already-full recycling bin instead. Dammit. We all have some hippy inside each and every one of us, and it is up to ourselves to fight our inner hippies. Otherwise, every country in the world will register a negative gross national product. I have failed and now I'm ashamed.
Among other treasures left behind in my living room are a tall cylindrical traffic pylon, and a roadwork in progress sign with a 30km/h speed limit on the bottom. They've been here all along, so some drunkass predecessor to the suite must've "borrowed" them while stumbling home through a construction site. ("Aaaah dunno, they just follllowed me hoooooome! *HICCUP*")
The best course of action was to leave them at a nearby construction site and hope that the work crew will adopt them, but once again, I was tempted to use the legally-mandated power vested in these relics to my amusement. After all, wherever I place that sign, traffic will be forced to slow down considerably, so the best road would probably be a high-traffic area like Westbrook Mall. Fuck you, Inner Hippie! I won't yield to you this time!!! Screw it, these things are just too heavy to carry that far...but the feeling of power in my hands is just too overwhelming...arrrgh, but somewhere there is probably an embattled construction worker out there wondering why the hell are cars flying past him at 100km/h. And so ends my internal struggle.
Having left these artifacts at the construction site next door last night, where they can find a new home with a loving family, there was nothing left in the living room of concern. This only leaves the walls and my bedroom. Even though I began the cleaning up process weeks ago, my room still required a painstaking weekend to clean up; the walls weren't too bad, although I was sure they made the walls white to make he cleaning experience miserable.
So having finally done cleaning, it was finally time to get the community coordinator to check my work. He's an alright guy, but seeing how his room is CONSTANTLY spotless, one can only imagine that his idea of socially interacting with others consists of wiping the furniture. In other words, I expected the comco's inspection to be a nightmare since he would probably hold me to the same exact standards of cleanliness that he instills in his own room.
It turned out not to be that bad - other than a few small things he wanted me to fix, like the dust on the blind slats, he was okay with my room. Finally finishing off the work and getting a pass, I was finally free to go.
With my vehicle loaded up, I headed off to a temporary future of living under the dominating eyes of my parents.
Arthur waiting for me to get into the packed car and drive.
posted by Cosmic Ocean at 9:51 PM
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