Still not clean

Even the soap is unclean in this place.

Today was a wonderful day. I came back to the apartment for lunch and had to step over a fresh puddle of urine which was supplementary to the usual jagged rug of broken glass which litters the doorway like rice at the entrance of a church.

Due to my utter disgust and contempt for everyone living here – for their contribution to the filth – I avoid all contact with all other housemates.

In the abomination which is the kitchen, inanimate objects are brought to life by thriving bacteria which move the plates around like poltergeist. I’m certain none of the inhabitants here touch the dirty dishes once they’ve been used (must be food intolerance). The kitchen sink barely drains water through a blockage of slimy penne - which now more closely resembles the properties of sea-weed. Half the sink is covered corrosive white powder, and the whole sink is over-flowing with dishes

Hence, food preparation isn’t easy here. I take slow and shallow breaths praying I don’t inhale the lethal spores which are growing on the pots and pans and cutlery which fester on the counter-tops and in the kitchen sink. The kitchenware has food that is permanently burnt onto them. Using these pans is like cooking in food in a wood-fire oven – you get a certain flavour added to you food. Today I tried to toast some bread and it popped out wet.

When I first arrived I carefully selected the cleanest plates and utensils in the cupboard, washed them again personally and sequestered them for private use, lest they be corrupted by the evil and horrid people in this place. I dare not touch anything. If food falls onto the counter I will discard it. If I touch the counter I will wash my hands. I wash my plates and bring them immediately bring them back to my room to air-dry – dreading to think where the greasy dish-towel has been.

The oven-mitts inspire more terror that a bullying volcano. I cringe every time I put my hand inside - like reaching into a pool of slime water to fetch a ball. Once you put your hand in you can feel the inner surface interacting with your skin, and once you put your hand out you count your fingers are realise although they’re all there they are covering in a thick film of unidentifiable goop.

I succumbed to use the toilet the other day – I would usually hold it and use the urine-soaked public toilets in the McDonald’s restaurant next door – and I saw a little silverfish scurrying around the floor in slow motion, slowed down from it’s characteristic hurry by the thick blanket of grunge covering the floor. Dirt is usually an ideal environment for silverfish to breed, but this little fella just stopped before me and shrugged it’s segmented appendages in fatigue and frustration.

Until today I thought the dishwasher was simply for show, but I was astounded to learn it is actually used. However, I’m not sure how clean the dishes are – I open it up and found a used condom stuck to the door… which was probably used as a drinking vessel in the absence of any clean cups. The inside of the refrigerator is stained red, the counter in the bathroom is layered with short hair trimmings and toothpaste, and the microwave has a gold-encrusted interior – being the desiccated splatter from one ready-meal to another.

Today is my last day here - I must purge this place of evil. Time for a fire.