Farewell 2020, a year which felt like living for 12 months with the housemate from hell. You know the one, right? The one whose overzealous Jamie Oliver-inspired cooking attempts set the smoke alarms off and made the flat public enemy No. 1 of the entire block. The bastard who left the windows open and flooded the house and stole our only pair of clean socks and thought we wouldn’t notice. Who used up all the hot water in the mornings, left one square of toilet paper behind, and went to all the effort to stack a single tuna can atop of the already full garbage rather than take it out. The housemate who left a drop of milk in the carton and laid bricks on the toothpaste to squeeze the last morsels of Colgate mint out. Farewell, good riddance, na na na na, na na na na, hey hey goodbye. You will not be missed.
To cope with the anxiety that 2020 bought we found ourselves resorting to puzzle making, bread baking, wine drinking, and Tiger King bingeing. We looked for normalcy in zoom parties and told ourselves that it was only matter of time until things were back to normal.
But sadly, like the horror housemates we bid adieu, we are not free yet. We can sage the house and rearrange the furniture to rejig the Feng Shui, create an open and clear pathway to the front door and fill the kitchen with earthly colours, but that doesn’t remove the spots of mould in the corner of the bathroom from all the showers taken without the fan on.
While we may not cross paths in the hallway anymore, this housemate has made it near impossible for us to get our bond back, and now they will not reply to our messages to pay for the holes in the wall and scuffs on the floor they have caused.