Friday was the last day at my old apartment. I boxed up my remaining possessions, disassembled Ikea furniture, and agonized over last-minute Goodwill donations. Both of my roommates are staying, and one of them picked my last day to tackle all the chores procrastinated since before I moved in: Cleaning and organizing the pantry of untouched cookware and cans of food; removing the large pots of barren soil from the living room; and, of course, cleaning the kitchen garbage can in the bathtub.
It was a Heart of Darkness moment: Entering the bathroom and seeing that garbage can standing in the shower, with years of dried-up condiments and mold plied to the walls and bottom of the tub. The Horror, the Horror! I have seen unspeakable things during my 20 months of living with that bathroom, a pestilent sewer of hair, grime, mildew, and dozens of dusty bottles of personal hygiene products (the toilet tank was used as a make-up counter), with the occasional shocker like: Bloody underwear. Shitty toilet seat. Garbage can in the shower.
But how fortunate that I could relax, laugh, and snap a picture, because I had already taken the last shower I’ll ever take in that apartment. What a nice souvenir of my internment! I will call it “Craigslist Roommates.”
