"I'm ready to move out, Watson," I admit. I've touched on it before, but I'm more ready than ever now. "I think he's finally broken me."
"What is it now?"
"What isn't it?"
Glassy is a twenty eight year old Smartphone slash Social Media junkie. Always has been for as long as I've known him. He is the epitome of iPhone addiction. He is just about everything I hate about the world today. And he is me when I was twenty eight. Lazy. Thinks he's making all the smart adult decisions.
I look at Watson, and say, "I told some of the girls at work today I was finally starting to understand why I drove my ex-wives crazy. I finally called him out on the dishes in the sink. The ones that have been sitting there for three days."
Glassy destroyed the kitchen one morning making himself breakfast during which time he realized Young Squire would probably appreciate scrambled eggs and sausage versus Glassy's usual copout meal for the kid, which was a bottle of formula and maybe some flavored puff snacks. One of the most important steps for Glassy, when he's doing anything remotely "Adult", is for him to post an update about it on his Someone Needs Attention Page (SNAP), aka The World's Most Favorite Social Media site EVER! That status ("Making breakfast for me and the Young Squire") garnered over 60 Likes.
After he made the breakfast, the dishes sat for almost twenty four hours before I took a picture and posted it in the comments of his status with the caption "Chef Fail". He commented back it was on the agenda for the evening.
Twenty four hours later, Glassy finally cleans up his mess while cooking something else at the same time. All that work cleaning the kitchen and when he's done cooking there's a new sink of dishes soaking. The ones I'm talking about.
"Maybe it's just me, but I could smell that shit turning two days ago. The water level in the fucking pan has dropped a quarter of an inch!"
"Well, maybe it's hard for him to smell past the dog shit and the sour clothes," Watson shrugs, as he casually tosses his disc toward another basket.
Glassy has a dog named Blanket. A little skittishly wiry dog. No self-esteem. No potty training. Glassy has never taken that dog outside to learn to pee ever. He almost seemed disappointed when I told him if and when we move the dog was either getting potty trained or a new home, especially after he seemed excited that a house we were considering had hardwood floors like the one we have now. Blanket shits wherever she wants, and Glassy will sit on the couch next to it for hours. Until I get up usually, because I have to walk out of my room in the morning watching where I walk. If I go two days without seeing a turd, I have to check the dog's food because chances are Glassy hasn't fed the dog either.
Glassy is absolutely incapable of doing any instant chore, a chore that requires seconds to complete...like throwing the empty Spaghetti-Os can in the trash directly behind him because it requires two hands. It requires him to put his phone down. All hours of the day or night, when he is awake, that phone is in his hands. He totally zones out. Nothing is done. Carrying the Young Squire to his crib requires walking over two weeks worth of their clothes on the floor from the door to the crib. The room stinks of sour baby formula that's soaked into the Squire's clothes and bed.
"He ended up washing those dishes in less than ten minutes after I said something to him. I mean, fuck, it was so gross even the cockroaches wouldn't have anything to do with it.'
Oh, yeah. We got bugs.