A day after I got back from my most recent cash bleeder trip, I was catching up on my sleep when at about noon my roommate banged down on my door asking if I sent Yaya on some errand. Duh. I wasn’t even awake yet.
“She’s gone.” Ok, I didn’t catch that. Say what? “She’s gone and so are her things.”
Man. I went back to bed and hugged my pillow, and stared into space for probably half an hour to process things. Dammit. I just arrived and barely unpacked. My empty suitcase was still strewn about with some travel debris on the floor, and my hamper was overflowing with dirty laundry.
I was never pretentious about being a homebody, so this news was bad news. This means I would have to lug my clothes to a laundry shop two blocks away. I would subsist on instant noodles and peanut butter again, because I couldn’t even open a can of tuna using the stupid can opener we have.
And that is what exactly happened, and still happening. I have since made two trips to that godawful laundry shop, I have tried all the silog varieties at the corner store, and somehow got my friends to buy me dinner sometimes. Then there are the times when I don’t eat. Boo fucking hoo.
My room looks like a refugee center, with all the odds and ends and chargers and clothes in piles. I hate it hate it hate it, but when I get home I’m just too tired to sort it out. Whatever independent living is, this is it.
We have had several candidates for replacement, but after the nightmares we had in the past we’re a little more picky now. The single mom is out (she plans to bring her kid and that’s ehhhh), the sickly one is also out (my drugs are mine and only mine), so that leaves us with the one who texts like “Morning poh teh, muztah na poh kelan q po recib teket ko?”
I’m very reluctant to ship her over here as I’m seeing some boy trouble in future with all that text talk, but as I’m plowing through my garbage I’m desperate. Good luck to me. Who knows what adventure this new one brings to our lives.