I once lived in a London apartment with five other girls, one of whom made “fudge” once a week: marshmallows and chocolate chips melted in the microwave and spread into a baking dish. The girls would come home punchdrunk on cheap vodka and British accents and hack at the congealed mess with forks, fingers, whatever. These dishes sat in the kitchen for weeks, faux-fudge finding a home in a plastic bowl, a wok, whatever was clean, until it wasn’t clean, none of it, and I lost my mind a bit and piled all the dirty dishes and orphaned socks and dog-eared books in front of the door of the offending roommate while she slept and then didn’t speak to her for the rest of the three-month stay.
from waaaay over here —> You’re Messy, They’re Tidy? (Or Vice Versa?) Five Ways to Find a Middle Ground