Seriously. Clean up your shit. It is bananas.

Right now, it is 11:11 and I am making the most fervently wishing for the deepest desire of my heart. It would take a miracle for my wish to come true, but that can't keep a girl from wishing. Someday, perhaps my dream will become a reality.

I have a dream...that one day, my roommates will clean up after themselves.

Those of you that know me personally may be thinking, "Oh, ha ha! That's so funny! She's such a naturally untidy person, ranting about other people's untidiness! Ho ho ho!" If you are thinking this, you fail to understand the difference between being untidy and being GROSS. I'll give you an example: my room often has books all over the floor because I don't own proper bookcases. My roommates, on the other hand, have left a black banana in the freezer for at least two months and counting. I'm not exaggerating. Nomi knows. When I say "this shit is bananas", I am literally talking about bananas--among other things.

Such as dishes. DUDE. We have a dishwasher, yet at the beginning of the year, y'all insisted that it would be easier if everyone just washed their own dishes by hand and used the dishwasher as a drying rack. Fair enough -- I can see that strategy working. However, you have clearly overlooked a key element to this plan working: that you actually do your dishes. I mention this because tonight I woke up from a nap after not sleeping more than 5 hours a night for the past week with one desire: to clean my apartment in preparation to demonstrate to my mother than I am a responsible adult. Bravely entering the kitchen, my opponent was I was a sink so full of dishes that I couldn't fit my water bottle underneath the faucet to fill it up. "Whatever," I thought. "Hear me roar! I am not scared of a sink full of dishes! It's not my job to wash these, but at the same time, they've been in the sink for almost a week and it'd be a shame to get roaches the week before we all move out, would it not? You do want your apartment to look nice for Mothers' Day, do you not? You do! Carry on, brave soldier!"

Wielding my precious lemon-scented dishsoap sword (which, by the way, I bought today after not having any dish soap for about a week -- I thought someone else would since I bought it last time, but clearly I was incorrect), I began the battle. However, within a few dishes, I found that I had to stop in order to wait for the water to drain. It didn't drain, and the water was a disgusting gray-brown color that made me recall with a shudder the time my mother described my hair-color as "dishwater blonde". I gritted my teeth and held my breath: I was going in.

The first thing my hand encountered in its scuba-diving was a steak knife, thankfully not by the blade. OH NO! A SHARK! The weary diver surfaced to regain courage before trying again. This time, several pieces of Sponge Bob Squarepants-shaped macaroni were responsible for the blockage. I pulled out the slimy, coagulated blob of vaguely Sponge-Bob-shaped mush.

This cycle repeated about four times. I'd wash a few dishes, then realize that the water wasn't draining, and find something else both disgusting and not mine. It should be noted that I am the only one in this apartment not on a college meal plan, and therefore I'm the only one who really does much cooking. However, I suspect that it's a case of Daddy paying for everything for my roommates, since judging by the amount of takeout boxes left lying around and sticky packets of soy sauce in the fridge, they order enough Chinese take-out to feed all of China. Why must one order take-out every night if one is already paying to eat school food? Clearly, the world is full of mysteries.

While I was waiting for the water to drain again, I decided to clean the stovetop and the counters, to similar effects. All around the stove were bits of food that were, again, clearly not mine. Wouldn't it be logical that, since I am the one who uses the kitchen the most, that I would be the one to make the mess? THIS IS A BIZARRO WORLD IN WHICH LOGIC DOES NOT EXIST.

Also, it is particularly lame when I try to grab a yogurt on my way out the door in the morning and a spoon with which to eat it, and then find that, out of all fifteen or so spoons in my apartment, ALL of them are sitting in the sink dirty and probably have been for the past five days. I then have to make a choice between trying to eat my yogurt with a fork (wait, nevermind, all the forks are dirty too!), being late for class while I carefully wash Sponge-Bob-macaroni grime off of a spoon, or eschewing yogurt altogether and listening to my hungry stomach growl all through class. Let's just say, in these types of situations, it's not just my stomach that wants to growl.

NEVERMORE.