After hearing a familiar dripping sound down where the roaches roam, Bradley put a plastic bucket under the kitchen sink last night. Despite a repair by an unlicensed crack- head plumber that our landlord Lenox hired last Fall, the pipes under my sink have once again failed and all my large pots and pans are coated with a slimy substance and millions of tiny black specks which I have concluded are coffee, for I wash my espresso basket in the sink and never dump used Starbucks in the trash.
The family that lives on the second floor is the cause of the flooding under my sink. They have a washing machine which is illegal in this building. The force of the water pouring down rusty old pipes backs up and comes up these pipes on the first floor—the gurgling sound is intriguing to my cats—tons of bubbles made from Tide dazzle the whiskers of my calico.
After many washes from above, the curved pipe under my sink detaches, causing water not to flow down the pipes under my sink, but through the kitchen floor which now, after five years of this nonsense, is rotted.
Having already given up on life and wishing I would simply die in my sleep rather than having to do dishes again or send another resume or go on an interview for a job that does not pay enough to survive on in New York, I simply permitted the bucket under the sink to overflow this morning.
Too tired to care.
Let this place rot.
Oh for God’s sake, my feet are getting wet. There goes my fuzzy slippers.
Where is that monkey wrench?
That was easy.
Oh how I just hate dead roaches…close the cupboard…there you go…no big deal…at least there are no mosquitoes under there.