Ben’s Diary: I Made A Huge Mess In The Kitchen But I Can’t Clean It Up

Dear Diary,

I made a huge mess in the kitchen but I can’t clean it up.

But first, I’m sorry, Diary. I’ve neglected you. Again. Our relationship has stalled out these past few months, hasn’t it? But as you’ll see, it’s not you, it’s me. I know, I know, that’s the type of clichéd bullshit we whisper into the ears of tearful lovers, but Diary, you and I aren’t lovers. You’re a physical object. Well, an… electronic cloud? At the very least, you’re a webpage, which is not a thing you can love in the human relationship sense, but it is a thing you can love in the “hey, I love this thing” sense. So I love you, Diary, you great thing, you. And I’m back! To tell you about how the roommate and I keep forgetting to buy fucking paper towels.

We’re going on several MONTHS since a paper towel has stepped a quilted, papery foot in our house. Yes, months. Yes, that’s absurd. No, it’s not on purpose. No, it’s not an environmentalism thing. No, I’m not mad about. Yes, it has gotten gross. The kitchen that is. We’re in trouble. Like, real bio-hazard trouble. I think the EPA is about to send in their elite corps of Bio-Hazard Bros to sterilize the joint, wrapped in layer after layer of HAZMAT suit, armed to the teeth with Super Soakers filled with bleach and Lysol grenades. And honestly? I wouldn’t blame them. I’d blame us. The dudes that keep forgetting to buy paper towels.

Okay, that might be a tad bit hyperbolic. It’s not like we don’t tidy up at all, leaving sticky messes to fester fuzzed mold on the laminate countertops. Measures of disinfection have taken place. They’re just… non-traditional to say the least. Which is the perfect prompt for, yup, you guessed it! RANDOM INSERTED LIST TIME! Ben, in no particular order, what are things you’ve used to clean up spills instead of paper towels? Well me, there’s:

1.) Kleenex. Not good. Just isn’t strong enough for those really messy spills, and it falls apart when wet. Also, if you call Kleenex ‘tissue paper’, fuck you. It’s Kleenex. Just like it’s Googling things, not internet searching things. Or eating Jell-O shots, not gelatin shots. Speaking of which, think about how much of a nightmare the whole finding-out-Bill-Cosby-is-a-rapist-piece-of-shit thing was for the dude (non-gendered use as always, cause feminism, duh) who does PR for Jell-O. That had to be the CUSHIEST gig of all time (literally, I assume Jell-O’s office forgo office furniture in favor of their sculpted product). Who the fuck ever needs a statement from Jell-O? You’re not running new products out. You’re not generating press releases. You’re not dealing with violent, Jell-O related controversies. If people didn’t give a shit that Jell-O was made from ground up horse hooves, then what the fuck would they actually care about? Apparently, the spokesperson of your company being a serial rapist is what. The public ain’t cool with that, completely cratering their stock price in response. Who knew! Have fun distancing yourself from that, now most likely unemployed Jell-O PR dude. Anyway, shout out to all the tremendously brave, resilient survivors who came forward in that heart-breaking New York Magazine piece. And fuck you, Bill Cosby. You should be in jail, preferably one underwater with the windows open. And Kleenex, I don’t know why you got dragged into this now absurdly long paragraph, but you don’t clean spills up for shit.

2.) Toilet paper. Same problem as Kleenex, only it’s even thinner and falls apart even easier, turning into soggy goop in your hands. Toilet paper is a terrible thing to use to clean anything other than your ass and random globs of toothpaste stuck in your bathroom sink. And sometimes it even fails at that.

3.) Oxy wipes. Yeah, I tried cleaning up kitchen messes with the same thing I clean my greasy, post-pubescent face with. They might be good at cutting through zits, but they lack the surface area to really make a dent on that shattered glass of Chardonnay. Not recommended.

4.) A beach towel. Purely a response to the lack of surface area from the Oxy wipes. But you know what? It worked. But it’s definitely just a one and done deal, because you can’t really do fucking LAUNDRY after every tiny kitchen mess you make. That’s the whole reason we have paper towels in the first place.

5.) A dirty gym sock. So remember that titular mess I couldn’t clean up? Well, it wasn’t for lack of trying. Post gym workout (Do you even lift, bro? Yeah, but not much.), I was trying my best to get my grilled pork loin on, when an overzealous meat flip resulted in a nice splash of pork juice raining down on our linoleum tile. Seeing as dinner was in perilous danger of being over-cooked, and with no Kleenex, toilet paper, Oxy wipes, or beach towels in sight, I did the only thing a man can do in that situation. I cleaned it up with my foot. Yeah, Diary. I cleaned up pork juice with my dirty gym sock. Well, not so much cleaned it up as smeared it around in porky circles. It was a shameful moment. I threw away the sock.

Yup, that’s how bad things have gotten. The thing is, I’m not even sure how the roommate and I got to this point. It hasn’t been malicious or passive-aggressive. There’s been no ill-will towards each other. There’s been plenty of opportunities to fix this. We’ve both been to the store dozens of times. Hell, I was at a flea market recently and even saw paper towels for sale there, and didn’t even think to buy them. I go grocery shopping EVERY WEEK. Never come back with them. Same for the roommate. It’s a fucking idiotic showdown of forgetfulness.

We’re just two moronic cowboys who keep riding in for pistols at high noon, hopping off our future Jello-O mold steeds, walking off our ten paces, turning, reaching down for our holsters, and coming up empty, having forgotten to pack our guns AGAIN. It’s absolutely ridiculous. The townsfolk don’t even watch us anymore. They just roll their eyes and get back to awaiting imminent death by dysentery.

So yeah Diary, I made a huge mess in the kitchen, but I can’t clean it up. At least not until I grow a brain.

Later Diary!

Ben