Aaaaargghhhhh!

My roommate, bless her sweet heart, does NOT:

(1) take the trash out to the trash bin - EVER;
(2) take the trash bin out to the curb on trash day;
(3) take the recycling out to the curb on recycling day;
(4) rinse a dish before putting it in the dishwasher - EVER (but she WILL put a crusty dish from the dishwasher into the cabinet when she (rarely) unloads the dishwasher after I run it);
(5) put a dish in the dishwasher, rather than just leaving it in the sink;
(6) fill my dog's water bowl after her dog drinks all Pogo's water;
(7) bring the mail inside the house - EVER;
(8) wring out a sponge and put it in the sponge-holder - EVER;
(9) bring home my dishes and silver that she takes over to friends houses, her office, and in her car;
(10) scrub the bathtub - EVER;
(11) remove dead things from the refrigerator;
(11) you get the idea.

She loves to cook. And she is very good at it. But after she cooks, the kitchen looks like this:

Once, when I went of town, I came home to our kitchen looking like this:

To avoid the above, I go behind her religiously EVERY DAY and rinse her dishes and put them in the dishwasher; re-locate her dirty abandoned glasses and other dishes from the living and dining rooms to the kitchen; dredge the soaking, nasty sponge from the bottom of the kitchen sink, wring it out, and place it in the sponge-holder; put the lids back on various household foodstuffs like the peanut butter, honey, and syrup; and excavate her dead, moldy tupperwares and assorted expired spore-producing snacks from the refrigerator.

If I had the stomach for it, I would do an experiment: stop picking up after her and see what happens. I'm just far to terrified of the results. I can't do it. I wonder if she ever wonders how the trash gets out of the kitchen and to the curb ... I wonder if she ever wonders how all the ditry glasses that she leaves all over the house magically end up in the dishwasher ... I wonder if she ever wonders how the peanut butter jar ends up all shiny and clean and in its place after she leaves it open on the counter with a sticky knife stabbed down into it ... or if she ever gets curious to know where that moldy bag of tortillas or those fermented black bananas swarming with fruit flies went ...

I love her to death. But sometimes I just want to kill her.

Okay.

I think I feel better now.