"Drowning in Garbage" - 2.5" x 2.5"
Today, some moths exploded into my apartment, via an infested bag of pecans. The instant I opened the bag, pouf!--they were everywhere.
It reminded me of one of the worst, most annoying experiences of my life. Ages ago, I had a dreadful landlord. He felt I wasn't paying fair market price for his apartment, so, rather than being an adult about it, and asking for more money--or not renting to me, in the first place--he elected to ignore me completely, and perform no landlordly duties, save for cashing my cheques.
One day, the electronic key thingy that opened the front door stopped working. I'd just been down to put the dust out, and I got trapped out on the street, in my bare feet, for nearly an hour, before someone took pity on me. I was banging on the door, shouting for help, trying to squeeze in behind other tenants (some of whom were quite rough in rebuffing me!), to no avail. It was February. I was miffed.
I rang the landlord immediately, and left a message, but he didn't respond. A week later, I took the dust out again, and again, became trapped on the street. This time, it took even longer to get in. Someone threatened to ring the police. (I looked a bit, eh, homeless, in those days. I hadn't been able to afford new clothes for years, and I didn't have anything without holes or ink stains. I probably wouldn't have let myself in, either, without some confirmation of residency. Though, you'd think the key thing with the building's address on it might've helped my case.)
After that, I stopped taking the dust out. Being trapped is one of my worst phobias, right up there with vomit and dogs. I couldn't bring myself to risk it, again. For a while, I stuffed all the dust down the garbage disposal, in the sink. I pushed most of a Christmas goose down there, and half a watermelon, and a lot of plastic wrap, and a wet cardboard box, and a soup bone, and then that broke, too.
I fired off another salvo of messages to the landlord--he'd never pick up the phone for me, or speak to me, at all (except once, when his senile father's electricity went off, and he needed my help)--so, that was in vain. Bags of rubbish began to pile up. They took over a whole room. Flies came in. It was horrible.
Eventually, I got some money together, and hired someone to shift the dust. But for a while, there, I was drowning in rubbish. Even double- and triple-bagging, there was always a faint smell of decay abroad. It was the worst. The absolute pits. Completely humiliating. I couldn't let anybody in.
Before Garbagegate, I was a pretty lazy housekeeper. I left dishes in the sink for ages, only took the dust out once a week, and let cardboard boxes take over the living room. No more! I can't stand having garbage anywhere near me, now. I always throw it away fast, and I don't let dishes pile up. A bit of clutter is fine--pillows, coats, cardigans, pieces of paper--but there can't be garbage. No garbage. Never garbage.
It took the landlord nearly a YEAR to replace the front door key. Shortly thereafter, I moved out. I couldn't get him on the phone, to tell him I was leaving, so I punished him by waiting till the day before I was moving, then leaving him a message demanding that he have the lift locked the following morning, because the movers would be needing it. That way, he couldn't find a new tenant immediately. I hope he used that tenantless month to think about what he'd done, but he probably didn't.