If Glassy is to be believed, our house didn't have a cockroach problem until a storm knocked a tree down in the backyard. Whether it's true or not, I would think even one cockroach would be a giant incentive to clean up after oneself. It's apparently too hard to reach over to the sink for a washcloth to wipe up errant baby formula powder off the counter.
Instead, I wake up at one thirty in the morning and after dodging any dog shit on the floor, and purposely not making eye contact with the blue rectangle illuminating Glassy's face where he's sprawled on the couch, I chase off the gang of bugs swarming around the little white pile of tasteless nutrients scattered next to the container of formula.
I have never lived like this. I've never lived with bugs. Roaches. I've never lived with anyone who didn't care like Glassy. Not even the bugs scurrying out from underneath the hardened dog shit on the living room floor is enough incentive to stay on top of his laundry, the dishes, the garbage. None of it.
Out of all this, Glassy is focused on one thing. And it's not grief. It's a girl. And it's the wrong girl too.