I’m not sure what it is about my gravity, but I’ve got another nut‐job in orbit: the owner of the house I live in.
He eats coffee and cigarettes for breakfast, donuts with forceps, and raw sugar cubes stirred into giant bowls of plain yogourt. He’s constantly vocal about how busy he is despite never leaving the house, constantly commenting on how tight money is despite making what I estimate is at least $4500 renting out the rooms in the house, likes to speak French because he thinks I don’t understand it, and one day shared his unsolicited views on the races of the world in descending order of perceived politeness before ripping into Kathleen Wynne for her environmental policy. He’s political, but in an uncomfortable sort of way, like when you’re around someone who uses the word oriental and they’re talking about a person.
Then the notes started…
What is it they say about life and art?
That’s from today—so I decided to document the rest, starting with the kitchen, the most noted area of the house.
I keep a rotating number of clean glasses in my room each week to throw his count off.
It’s a ceramic cooktop—I don’t like ceramic cooktops because I like to cook and ceramic cooktops are bought by people who like to clean more than they like to cook because someone who likes to cook knows ceramic cooktops are terrible for cooking. The only way to easily keep them clean, like any cooktop, is to never use them—and you won’t because you don’t cook—but if you do, and you burn something on the surface—and you will because you don’t cook—you can’t just scour it off like on a normal stove. You have to get special cleaners and cloths or else you ruin the entire thing. On a normal stove you can boil a pot dry and just ruin a pot. On a ceramic cooktop you also melt the glass onto the underside of the pot and—surprise surprise—ruin the entire thing. I know this to be true having ruined exactly one ceramic cooktop in my life. As far as I can tell all a ceramic cooktop is supposed to do is look a certain way and nothing else, otherwise you risk its destruction. Useless!
Much like these plates…
…since everything in this house—including wood, tooth brushes, sponges, and razors—is run through the dishwasher.
Thank you—I know how a fridge works.
Seriously—what is it they say about life and art?
Innocuous at first, the tone of the notes became more condescending and passive‐aggressive as they appeared.
You have made it clear what a sophisticated European you are, but despite being a backwater hick from the sticks of Canada, I also know how a window works.
And now the pièce de résistance, the following exercise in patronizing assery disguised as wit.
I never wear my outside shoes, particularly during sloppy weather, around inside a house—but some people do. I get it…
Yes—point previously made and understood. My shoes are off. I’m carrying them.
Fuck you. I’m putting them back on now.
-huffs-
Okay—now to end on a positive note. The best part about living here is this guy:
This is Freddy, and he comes to my room to hang out before and after work. He sleeps at the end of the bed. He purrs loudly and I feed him clam snacks and brush his fur. He rolls on his back and stretches out to get tummy rubs. I thought he was a black cat at first, but his coat in the bright daylight is a rich chocolate filled with tabby echoes. He’s sitting in my lap right now reminding me it’s time for more snacks.
But before I go, one more neat thing I discovered. What colour is heat? Red, right?
Nope! Purple.