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I was a teenage fuckup in New Zealand in the 90s and I had some spectacularly grotty flatmates. I moved out at 17, having dropped out of high school, and the first place I moved into was perched on the shady side of a steep hillside and damp as gently caress, which isn't all that unusual for a student dive in Wellington. It was three levels, with entrance at the top, the living room/kitchen and a half bath (that never worked while I was there and basically didn't exist) in the middle, and four bedrooms and a bathroom in this weird twisting corridor on the bottom level. The stairs went straight down the two flights, so that if you rolled in drunk and survived the two flights of concrete stairs down to the door, you could still tumble all the way down from the front door and land by my room. The bedrooms themselves were built into the hillside and the hall went around the outside, so all the bedroom windows opened onto the hallway, not outside. I lived with three 19 year old skater dudes and one girlfriend, who I knew from the high school I dropped out of. One of them had a homemade tattoo gun and would lock himself in the only working bathroom for hours at a time. Once we all went on toilet paper strike and started using the phone books. They work better if you crumple them up and uncrumple them a few times. A couple of weeks before I moved out, tattoo gun guy puked all over the bathroom and nobody would clean it, and I had a total horror of vomit so I started walking 200 yards down to the public toilets at the top of the cable car. I washed in the bathrooms at the cinema I worked at. Dishes didn't live in the cupboard most of the time. You grabbed the most recent dirty dish off the top of the pile and washed it before you used it. At one point we did all get it together to clean the place up, though. We threw out the bottom half of the dish pile because it loving stunk once we cracked the crust seals on it, and we discovered that the carpet was actually orange, not brown/grey. Nobody would ever put the butter in the fridge and the place always smelled like rancid butter. I couldn't eat butter for years after that and I still buy olive oil marg for my toast. After the bathroom standoff at about six months in I moved into an old wooden house that had served as a fire station barracks at one point and had bamboo growing into the walls. It had stained glass windows and mirror finish clear panes so you couldn't see in. The backyard was a big gravel pit and it would later accumulate several dead cars, thanks to my drop kick boyfriend. My flatmates were really good friends of mine and that's where we all got into psychedelics in a big way, and then mdma and speed. The biggest bedroom was designed as a living room I guess and didn't have a door, just a curtain to separate it from the hallway. Highlights from that place included burning a hole in the dining room floor by emptying an ashtray too soon into a trash bag, accidentally electrocuting a mouse that was sitting in the toaster at 4am, leaving a shopping cart full of road signs in Mike's bedroom as a prank, which turned into his laundry cart and setting an icecream container full of iso-soaked weed on fire in the back yard to see what would happen.
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Aug 4, 2015 06:24
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| # ¿ May 17, 2024 23:54 |
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