It's so easy to imagine myself living here with housemates who never clean and who I leave passive-aggressive notes for and secretly resent and then I move out and grow up and yet still fume about years later and...
Aw -- it looks just like my place.
(In my defense: we were having the floors redone in the bedrooms and living room, so everything from those rooms had to fit into the family room. That's why it looked like that. No, really. And we're going to move the stuff back out to where it belongs any day now.)
Half a million. HALF A MILLION! Half a million bucks they're asking, and they can't be bothered to flush?
The theory that pink prison cells will help calm inmates has been disproven, I believe... which leaves absolutely no good reasons for doing this to a room.
The last thing I saw before I passed out was the fridge, taunting me like a cruel ice goddess. "Who's in control of the keyboard now, wisenheimer?" I thought I heard it say as I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep...
