Doing the dirty work

My roommate and I are at war. She just doesn’t know it yet.
There’s a speed-bump-sized lump of dust beneath our rug. If you spilled coffee on our tablecloth, it’d get cleaner. The dishes she left in the sink are supporting their own ecosystems.
It’s a wonder I haven’t called in the National Guard. But I believe in giving everyone a second chance, and also in taking revenge personally.
It’s not that I haven’t lived with roommates before. A brief comment generally suffices to clear up the most common issues.
As in, “Please don’t water the succulents every week.” Or “If you’re studying late, could you turn down the lights?”
Or “If you turn on the vacuum at three in the morning again, I will saw it into pieces and mix it into your cereal.”
Usually they get the message. This one doesn’t. So I’m forced to consider different strategies.
I know I’m a stickler. If I was wound any tighter, I’d speak in squeaks. If I had things my way, the place would look as clean as the apartments you see on television: like no one lives there.
That’s because I wouldn’t live there. I’d be out in my houseboat, drinking in sunshine and fresh air.
I can’t afford a houseboat, but I can afford a small suite if someone splits the bill. With such an arrangement, I realize that there has to be a certain amount of give and take.
For example, she takes my groceries, and I give her the okay.
But no longer. I’ve been polite long enough. I’ve mucked out the compost bin that is our bathtub one too many times. Today, this ends.
Okay, maybe not today, but whenever I come up with a strategy. Look, this isn’t easy.

On the one hand, I could refuse to take out the trash, stop dusting, et cetera. But that wouldn’t solve the problem. Things would build up.
At that rate, my side of the room would resemble the planet Mercury. It’d be uninhabitable. Also, it might catch on fire.
Alternatively, I could break out the soap, mops, and my marine biology professor’s sponge collection and scrub down the whole dorm. At least that way I’d be able to see the floor.
But this rewards bad behavior. Besides, I like my professor. He doesn’t deserve this. His sponges don’t deserve this.
I wish I had a roommate like my sister’s. I remember her telling me that her roommate was quiet and well-kept. The girl was ideal right until the police bagged her for running a fight club.
As a last resort to my dorm dilemma, I call the housing administration. They’ve dealt with worse problems.
Once the engineering students built a functioning nuclear reactor in my building’s basement. And that was just the freshmen.
But after spending 45 minutes on hold, listening to some music major’s strained rendition of Mozart, something snaps.
Forget contacting admin. I throw down the phone. I know how to solve my problem.
I march to my room, fling open the door, and make sure my roommate is listening.
Summoning up the memory of months of minor irritations, I plant my feet on whatever our carpet has turned into, look my roommate squarely in the eye, and give her the memo.
I’m moving out.

Copyright 2024 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.