This morning, I woke up in my roommate's bed with last night's face smeared all over the pillow case. Somehow, when I woke, I knew instantly this wasn't the kind of smear like after a usual tender night of rest (I would like to pretend I get tender sleep, but mostly, I just like using really intimate words (like intimate) in general sentences to freak people out). It was the kind of smear that only comes from either A) a night of crying yourself to sleep or B) a night of sweating alcohol out of your pores while you dream of ambiguous things like clowns and beef jerky. As soon as I felt the crashing headache that only comes from wine-dehydration (you know the kind I'm talking about), I remembered. Rolling over and seeing my roommate in a fetal position, with the sheets and blankets scissored in between her legs like she was climbing a rope only confirmed my notion that I, in fact, had done some drinking last night.
After what felt like 10 minutes, but was actually more like two, I pieced together the night before. It's not like I had blacked out or anything, but the first five minutes of my mornings are generally a big confusion to begin with. Somehow, I always wonder how I ended up where I am (even though I'm 99.9 percent of the time in my own bed), and don't ever remember how I got there. Shrinks will be studying the subtleties of how that relates to my inability to commit for years to come, I'm sure. Remembering an evening of polishing off my own bottle of Chardonnay and forgetting to have dinner, I feared what was waiting for me in the rest of the apartment. I walked out to the main living area to see a counter full of empty wine bottles and a floor covered in about 60 percent of all the high heels I own (...the shit girls do while imbibing). There are grilled corn on the cob ears on a plate in the kitchen that have been only half gnawed on, and fresh homemade salsa in the fridge. All at once, I got disappointed that I wasted the corn on the cob by leaving it out over night, and yet hysterically excited about the salsa in the fridge. I wish this was all here because when I get drunk, I turn into the Iron Chef (quite the contrary actually; I usually get drunk and find it necessary to hit up a Taco Bell drive-thru), but alas, it was because our overly friendly neighbor, Raul, had made us salsa and grilled corn. I would just like to say, screw baked muffins or pies, you dice me up a bunch of fresh vegetables (finely diced, no less), and teach me how to use a lime for things other than chasing a shot of Tequila (he squeezed fresh lime over the corn), and you will go down in history as the best neighbor of all time.
I should not neglect to mention the fact that Raul isn't bad to look at. It's too bad I have rules about dating men whose names I never know if I'm truly pronouncing correctly, as well as rules about shitting where I eat. But for now, I will happily accept his produce, so long as it continues to always be presented in the form of delicious authentic Mexican treats. Shit, if this guy starts frying ice cream though, all bets are off.
Needless to say, I spent the greater portion of today cleaning my room and kitchen. Who knew two girls could make such a mess of their lives within four hours. Our progress at making our apartment a home is still in the works. Our freezer has nothing but ice and mini liquor bottles in it, and we are still using plastic silverware. Before you feel sorry for us, you should know, we really have a weird obsession with plastic silverware. And, I also bought a set of silverware this afternoon, and yet I'm still using the plastic. I'm just saying... you can flick food across a table with a plastic utensil so much better than with a metal one. Try it if you don't believe me. We haven't hung any pictures on the walls yet, so they are doing a nice job of lining the ground propped up against the walls at which they will one day grace. I'm just waiting for the right person to come visit, who happens to be pretty lengthy in height, and good with a hammer and nail. So far, I don't think anyone has been over who is taller than 5'8", and quite frankly, they've all had pretty fumbley hands. Trust me, I am always watching people's hands. We really need more useful friends. I should look into this.
My roommate has one of those robotic vacuum cleaners that does his thing on his own. Let me tell you: This guy freaks me out. That fucker's always getting tripped up in our rugs, knocking over our photos from their soon-to-be-hung-on spots, and sometimes he gets lost in the kitchen. I mean, this is an apartment. It's not that big. How do you get lost in one of the smallest areas of the entire place? You're a robot, you should be smarter than this. And the little bastard keeps sneaking up behind me. I've already set the little infrared guard on my room so he knows he's not allowed in there. I can't handle a man who doesn't know where he's going, knocks over my shit, and isn't even sorry. He certainly isn't going to get in my bedroom after such behaviors. Oh, his name is Clarence by the way. Yeah, Clarence is a tool.
Other than that, I'm finding that living with another female is really quite fun. It's funny the things that are different without even having to put thought into it. I never have to utter words like, "Are you really going to just leave your underwear right there?" or "Would a courtesy flush kill you?" It's like this girl can read my mind. Oh hey, I don't like chonies lying haphazardly on the ground and I don't like when people act like their shit doesn't stink. It's nice I don't have to be an ass hole and say that out loud all the time. The one thing I'm still confused about, however, is how we happen to go through so much goddamn toilet paper. I mean, we are two very petite females. I only crap like once a week (yes, I just shared that; close your mouth and let's move passed it), and we are both gone from our house 10-14 hours per day, and sleeping 6-8 hours a day. Where is all the toilet paper going? The thing about chicks is that it has to be getting used like a freaking catcher's mitt or something. It goes without saying then, that I've been buying up toilet paper like we are newborns going through 20 diapers a day.
Three bottles of Gatorade, 124 ounces of water, four cups of coffee, French toast, and a shit ton of salsa later, and I've managed to fully recover from last night's grape-infused diet. I also just put together part of the mystery as to why our toilet paper is disappearing so quickly...
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