So, I'll set the scene.
I get back to the house at around midday today, and the kitchen is looking slightly dishevelled - nothing (by any normal person's standards) too messy, as such; bits of food on the floor around the table, two bottles of alcohol being allowed to re-ferment in the midday sun, chess pieces knocked forsaken to the floor and food preparation areas left either crusty or wet. Standard student house situation, really (and it really doesn't happen often in this house) but enough to trigger my disdain anyway.
But when a few seconds later Charlotte appears and points out the vomit stains dribbled down the back door and in the corner of the floor, which someone has made the most insultingly poor effort to clean, then I gain a rage the size and ferocity of Leviathan.
Let me explain this reaction in perspective to how I would treat a communal kitchen; I try to make it look like I don't even live there. I am somewhat obsessive about washing up, using virtually boiling water and liquid, and getting it done as soon as I get chance. This sometimes means actually doing the washing up when I've prepared my meal, and it's sitting there, gradually getting colder, yet I cannot bring myself to eat it because I need to do the washing up first. This poses yet another problem in that if my food, freshly cooked, drops below a certain temperature, I find that I cannot eat it anymore and the luke-warmth it has reached makes me want to retch. So, the fact that I am compelled to do the washing up first means I'm having to do it quickly, getting a bit stressed, therefore I can't really sit down after and enjoy my food.
But anyway, that's the form of self-diagnosed OCD I've seemingly chosen, manifested in bizarre culinary habits. So whenever someone else doesn't treat the communal kitchen the same way I do.. well, you can imagine my reaction. I don't scream and shout, and I ask the person to sort out their mess as politely as I can, which, by my standards, is never quite fast or clean enough. You would be forgiven in thinking Christ, you sound like a right headache to live with and you look so much like the love child of Daniel Bedingfield and Heston Blumenthal I actually hate you, but only the latter estimation would be true; I am actually what can only be described as the perfect housemate. I am courteous, I buy milk and loo roll regularly, I am honest whenever I steal tea bags or Mars Bars (and I replace them) and I'm social.
Thing is, I like communal living, I truly do. It's a bi product of the whole university experience that I never imagined myself enjoying, and I could have had it so much worse than the five people I've shared 17 Purchas Court with this year.
But vomit left pepsinating with the air wafting from an overly full bin bag, and combined with the work surface mess, makes me wish everyone concerned (or should that be unconcerned?) dashed to some pigs blood hell. And this snarling intolerance, I am fully aware, possibly makes me a bad student. Students are supposed to be like one with squalor; shit, piss, vomit, carnal exudations - it's all a student's bread, butter and somewhat lumpy and smelly broth. But not for me it isn't. I'm on average twelve years older than everyone around me, and you know what? I don't remember being that disgusting when I was there age (if that last statement doesn't betray me prematurely becoming an old gimmer nothing will).
And I think a major part of my frustration with situations such as this is simply what good does getting that wasted do? Where is there anything positive in getting so pissed you actually vomit on the floor, less that four meters from a toilet? I cannot reconcile the sheer lack of good in these situations, and it is palpable. I know I'm not the most positive person at times (I regularly use cynic, and sometimes snort misanthropic when I'm in certain company) but I break a sweat trying to not be an imposition, even if people are vomiting on my shoes and then writing I'm an OCD shit knee with their fingers on the leather.
Just thought I'd share this with you. Not all that fun to read, I'm sure. But, you know, I'm keepin' it real. It's the only way to do it. Don't worry, there will be more subjective and exciting philosophical outbursts about music and art soon, all with the enthusiasm of a puppy who is glowingly oblivious to this world of inconsiderate twenty year-olds.
I get back to the house at around midday today, and the kitchen is looking slightly dishevelled - nothing (by any normal person's standards) too messy, as such; bits of food on the floor around the table, two bottles of alcohol being allowed to re-ferment in the midday sun, chess pieces knocked forsaken to the floor and food preparation areas left either crusty or wet. Standard student house situation, really (and it really doesn't happen often in this house) but enough to trigger my disdain anyway.
But when a few seconds later Charlotte appears and points out the vomit stains dribbled down the back door and in the corner of the floor, which someone has made the most insultingly poor effort to clean, then I gain a rage the size and ferocity of Leviathan.
Let me explain this reaction in perspective to how I would treat a communal kitchen; I try to make it look like I don't even live there. I am somewhat obsessive about washing up, using virtually boiling water and liquid, and getting it done as soon as I get chance. This sometimes means actually doing the washing up when I've prepared my meal, and it's sitting there, gradually getting colder, yet I cannot bring myself to eat it because I need to do the washing up first. This poses yet another problem in that if my food, freshly cooked, drops below a certain temperature, I find that I cannot eat it anymore and the luke-warmth it has reached makes me want to retch. So, the fact that I am compelled to do the washing up first means I'm having to do it quickly, getting a bit stressed, therefore I can't really sit down after and enjoy my food.
But anyway, that's the form of self-diagnosed OCD I've seemingly chosen, manifested in bizarre culinary habits. So whenever someone else doesn't treat the communal kitchen the same way I do.. well, you can imagine my reaction. I don't scream and shout, and I ask the person to sort out their mess as politely as I can, which, by my standards, is never quite fast or clean enough. You would be forgiven in thinking Christ, you sound like a right headache to live with and you look so much like the love child of Daniel Bedingfield and Heston Blumenthal I actually hate you, but only the latter estimation would be true; I am actually what can only be described as the perfect housemate. I am courteous, I buy milk and loo roll regularly, I am honest whenever I steal tea bags or Mars Bars (and I replace them) and I'm social.
Thing is, I like communal living, I truly do. It's a bi product of the whole university experience that I never imagined myself enjoying, and I could have had it so much worse than the five people I've shared 17 Purchas Court with this year.
But vomit left pepsinating with the air wafting from an overly full bin bag, and combined with the work surface mess, makes me wish everyone concerned (or should that be unconcerned?) dashed to some pigs blood hell. And this snarling intolerance, I am fully aware, possibly makes me a bad student. Students are supposed to be like one with squalor; shit, piss, vomit, carnal exudations - it's all a student's bread, butter and somewhat lumpy and smelly broth. But not for me it isn't. I'm on average twelve years older than everyone around me, and you know what? I don't remember being that disgusting when I was there age (if that last statement doesn't betray me prematurely becoming an old gimmer nothing will).
And I think a major part of my frustration with situations such as this is simply what good does getting that wasted do? Where is there anything positive in getting so pissed you actually vomit on the floor, less that four meters from a toilet? I cannot reconcile the sheer lack of good in these situations, and it is palpable. I know I'm not the most positive person at times (I regularly use cynic, and sometimes snort misanthropic when I'm in certain company) but I break a sweat trying to not be an imposition, even if people are vomiting on my shoes and then writing I'm an OCD shit knee with their fingers on the leather.
Just thought I'd share this with you. Not all that fun to read, I'm sure. But, you know, I'm keepin' it real. It's the only way to do it. Don't worry, there will be more subjective and exciting philosophical outbursts about music and art soon, all with the enthusiasm of a puppy who is glowingly oblivious to this world of inconsiderate twenty year-olds.
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