Roth just finished jerking off to another nameless woman on the internet. He pulled up his pants, wiped his cum on an old T-shirt and rolled of his floor mattress. Roth shuffled through the hallway to the bathroom to piss out the rest of his genetic material. He dared not make eye contact with his roommate in the living room.
The aroma of cigarettes seeped through the vents from the old women in the downstairs apartment. Toothpaste splattered on the sink mirror. A lonely q-tip dipped in earwax sat next to the unused toilet bowl brush. Roth’s eyes locked on the back of the toilet seat. It was covered in a trail of shit leading into the bowl. He directed his yellow piss on it, in a lackadaisical attempt to clean it off.
As his target practice went on, his mind became locked on their state of living. Roth and his roommate didn’t clean, didn’t vacuum, didn’t even have dish soap at one point. It was pathetic. As he looked into the bowl, and then into himself, realizing he lived in a shithole. He slipped his dick back into his pants and went into the living room.
Only in a handful of instances did he and his roommate, Kurt, have schedules that aligned. This was one of them – four in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Kurt worked nights at a convenience store for prole-tier wages; enough to buy energy drinks and a few one dollar cheeseburgers a week. Marx would’ve been right if he said video games were the opiates of the masses. It wasn’t opium, but microtransactions and endless serotonin releases. Kurt and Roth met in a gen-ed class they had together at the university.
Roth sat down on the futon while Kurt was focused on winning another game of Smash. Ceaseless bags of McDonalds lay on the coffee table. Dog hair from Kurt’s 10 year old mutt lined the floors. Three TVs sat on the entertainment station, with two CRTs for the GameCube and one digital one for the newer consoles. Kurt lost another game, trying to justify his use of bottom-tier characters to himself.
“When’s the last time you vacuumed?” Roth asked with a sigh in his voice. He knew the answer. It was more a heuristic to get Kurt to do some cleaning.
“It’s been a while, I think like, two or three weeks ago.” stated Kurt.
“Do you think you could clean the bathroom or do some dishes?”
When Roth walked out of his room earlier, he didn’t make eye contact with his roommate. He made eye contact with with the interminable pile of dishes in the sink. A sanctuary city for bacteria and a Calais-level refugee camp for mold. It was unbearable, but neither did anything about it.
“Sure, I can do it tomorrow” said Kurt.
Roth nodded his head in agreement, and Kurt’s next game started. The conversation ended as quick as it started.
That phrase was the phrase of a whole generation. Tomorrow. The next few weeks, besides the bare minimum, the living situation remained stagnant. The trash overflowed, the dishes in the sink applied for asylum, and the shit-lined toilet bowl remained, well, shit-lined. And each time Roth pissed, he pissed on the shit stain.