My Apartment

So you've still got your mission, right?  My mission, well did you know Mickey Mouse tried to commit suicide?  Multiple times?  First he tried a shotgun, then jumping off a bridge, filling his bedroom with gas, throwing an anvil tied to his foot into a river, and finally he tried to hang himself from a tree.  Even Mickey Mouse at one point didn't want to -- couldn't go on.

After the bar, the next place I found myself was my own apartment.

Here's a common scene:

One of us is home in our average sized two bedroom apartment, another walks in through the doorway.  If the one of us who was home is feeling particularly cruel, we may ask, "How was your day?" As if we couldn't tell.  We feign stupidity and lack of observance.  Perhaps, it is felt, their only utterance was an "Ugh" of contentedness.  Their bedroom door was slammed simply out of excess exuberance.

See, we are all employed at not-our-dream-jobs, and a have sneaking suspicion that life is often full of working that 9-5 grind without quite enough coffee to get us through.  This fills us with a righteous and deep unhappiness. The only way to really express our feelings is to dirty some dishes and leave them on the counter.  We'd do the dishes, but we can't quite divine why the sink doesn't drain, so much as act like a derelict pool for rubber duckies who couldn't afford the bathroom real estate costs.

"You really can't put anything down the garbage disposal.  If it gets clogged you'll have to pay for it." our landlord told us when we moved in.  To be fair, we had completely forgotten, since we moved in something like two and a half hours earlier.

Enter the repairman.  A deep sigh escapes his chest. "What did you guys put down the sink?" Down the sink? We're not sure.  Do we even have a sink?  Oh, that contraption that stores all our vegetable husks and potato skins that we like too much to throw away?  "Nothing that we know of."  At this point the repairman fixes us with a look that implies he's astounded with how much stupidity we've been gifted.  Surely our creator saved some for the rest of the population?

"Huh." is what he says.  We all know what he's just found down there.  He asks, "Which one of you put the frilly pink underwear down here?" But we don't break that easily. "Underwear?"  The phrase wafts into our mind's eye.  We try to place it.  Both of us shrug.  "Should you not put panties down the garbage disposal?" we wonder.  The repairman, miraculously, doesn't brain either of us with a pipe full of frilly gunk and pink fibrous mush.

Since clearly we aren't going to, the repairman affects the stance of the bigger man.  "Don't worry, this happens all the time."   As he leaves our apartment we think it's an odd thing that in performance of a job he may not love, where he has to deal with stupid tenants who can't seem to follow simple instructions, he still does it with such good nature.  We wonder if we can't aspire to be a little more like him.  A little more content with our situation.

Our third roommate walks in the door.  "It's your turn to do the dishes."  He must be pleased at the news.  He could have thrown his groceries much more accurately at our heads, on the way by to slamming the door to his room.

"Did you have a good day?"