Sludge.

Terrence recently discovered flushing things down the toilet.  And I’m most likely going to kill him any day now.  In case anyone needs a motive to give to the police, here’s why.  Occasionally I flush my unfinished cereal or soup down the toilet and it has always annoyed Terrence for unknown reasons.  I’d ask him why he cared and he’d usually respond, because.  No, that’s not the reason he must die.  Although responding with, because, is annoying on its own level.

Terrence makes his morning coffee in a french press and has since shortly after we moved in together.  But in those first four years of living together we had a garbage disposal, which is one of the best inventions of all time.  We also had a spray hose attachment for our sink, which I’ve had my whole life and never understood just how essential one of these was until we moved here.  Now we don’t have either, which makes kitchen sink clean up nearly intolerable.  Without these things Terrence is forced to clean up the sink manually, a skill he’s yet to comprehend.  He constantly leaves food in the drain trap and doesn’t bother to clean it out.  I’m not sure that he never cleans it out, but I’ve never seen it clean unless I know I did it.  Boys are gross.

Terrence recently discovered the solution to making his morning coffee with minimal, if any, clean up.  He’s begun flushing his coffee grinds down the toilet.  The very same toilet that my cereal is prohibited from entering.  Now my toilet is in a constant state of blackness.  It’s awful and it pisses me off.  A few times a week now I have to spray down the bowl with bleach cleaners and wipe around the edges with clorox wipes.  I asked him to stop flushing this sludge down the toilet and he refused.  I asked if he’d at least clean up after his black mess, he refused that too.

Finally, I asked what our guests would think when they unsuspectingly went to use our bathroom and found our toilet covered in black.  He replied that they’d assume we flush our coffee grinds and get over it.  Grr…

Humble.

To some of you these stairs may not look intimidating, but for Terrence and I, they’re horrifying.  Lurking all through this path from our back door to our car, Terrence’s parents house, and the street in which we walk Dutch, are scary spiderwebs.  Whether the prospect of walking through a few spiderwebs may not be terrifying to most of you, you’d have to at least admit it’s not pleasant.

The other night when Terrence was across the street, most likely stealing food from his parents kitchen, I was here blasting music with my friend Amanda.  When I began receiving the following messages from google talk.

Terrence: why do you hate me?

me: huh?
Terrence: i’ve been texting you!
Terrence: save me
Terrence: nevermind i’m walking around front cause you’re a terrible girlfriend
Terrence: terrible!

I was confused.  I also didn’t exactly read the last three IMs until after Terrence stuck his sad little face into the doorway and yelled at me.  The front door was latched so it was very Jack Nicholson of him.  Thankfully Amanda is more than used to my odd boyfriend so she wasn’t fazed.  My phone was in the bedroom so I never got his texts.  He left quite a few urging me to come to the back door and save him.  He asked me to grab a broom and clear a path for him.  Terrence has a serious fear of spiders and was quite upset with me that I hadn’t come to his rescue.  Poor boy.

I suppose this is my life now.  Move above ground and get a face full of web.  Every morning when I leave for work I hold my bag in front of me like a shield against the webs.  Sadly at night when I walk Dutch I have no shield, I just hope for the best and power through Béla Lugosi style.

I’ve been trying to come up with ways to fix this problem.  So far all I can come up with is to cut down these trees, thought I doubt my landlord would support this plan.  I guess all we can do is wait for spider season to be over, oh sweet winter.

You wanna know what comes between me and my Chuck’s? Nothing.

Since I was old enough to dress myself I’ve been in love with Converse’s Chuck Taylor’s.  It began as a high top love and eventually turned into a low top affair.  I used to be able to score 2 pair for $19.99 on 8th street, and eventually that turned to $30 for 2, then $30 for 1.  When Nike bought Converse and the price jumped to nearly $50 for 1 pair, I was seriously sad, but I wouldn’t let that deter me from acquiring a pair here and there.  Although it certainly put a larger pause between new Chuck’s.  One gap was so large that when I went to purchase a new pair the sales associate informed me that Nike had stopped production of half sizes.  Being a perfect size 6 1/2 I was pissed, I couldn’t fit a size 6 or 7 and I was forced to go in search of other shoes.  Bastards.  Every now and then I’d drop into a store at random to check if half sizes were still a memory.  Eventually they began to produce a few in some of the more classic colors, like black or white.  I’ve actually never owned a pair of either, I was always a fan of brighter color combination’s.

One bright shiny day my friend Yudy text messaged me to tell me she saw Chuck’s in half sizes again.  I ran out almost immediately to snag a pair but was disappointed with my find.  I returned home and searched the Converse website to see if I’d have better luck.  And there it was, glorious half sizes!  I was beyond elated.  I called my mother asap and exclaimed to her that I had already tossed a few pairs in my shopping cart, but I couldn’t rationalize spending all that money on sneakers.  I left the website open to my cart for weeks, petting the screen from time to time.  Until one day when I glanced over for a quick stroke and noticed an über sale and could resist no longer.

Behold, the tri-force of Chuck’s!  I’m kind of afraid to wear them. They’re just so pretty!  I’m very glad to have my Chuck Taylor’s back, but I must admit the fear of losing them is still lingering.  I kind of feel like I have to buy one of every color.  But I won’t.

For now… ish.

Currently Listening to: Reflection Eternal‘s Revolutions Per Minute.