By Hestia Gaia

The bin is full again, rubbish touching the lid, and the floor around it is decorated with scraps that were “too small to notice” to bother picking up.

Despite once having a cupboard full of toilet paper spread between two bathrooms, we are, somehow, down to just a cardboard roll in each without warning. No call out to restock.

The chore chart remains untouched nor updated after they ignored it so frequently. I feel I may as well have not written it at all.

The shower mat is mouldy, and the water is not draining properly again, so the communal foot spa is back in action. Today’s special athlete’s foot and hair strands.

The yard that they say is “fine” has grass up to our knees, and the generously fruit-laden tree has only had its gifts received by the paving, where its lemons now shrivel and rot.

Turned off cooking due to the broken dishwasher, unwiped stove top and unstocked essentials the household orders takeaway, contributing to the overflowing tower of pizza (boxes) that is the recycling.

Understanding the house but not the mate part of housemate as I feel overwhelmed trying to manage the chaos but not overmanage the people in it.

After all, we are here to prove we can be independent, responsible adults, right?

Through last-minute dashes, the real estate agent remains fooled upon inspection, though they will discover us soon, as the pipes keep being blocked from the overgrown lawn.

There was mateship before the house, and there still could be, but now, for now, it feels like there is just house.

From the un-moped floors to the in need of repair kitchen tap (that I feel I will again have to call the plumber for) all the way down the leaf-covered driveway (I will inevitably end up sweeping), all my spare brain space feels filled.

I tried to be a housemate, but I am tired. I have tried. I am living in a share house, and I am oversharing. For now, I think, I will just be “house”.

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