Starts A House Fire

It's such a cliche to say "he will probably burn down the house someday" but the Hurricane has changed this from a cliche to a fact. I was having a conversation with the guy that lives upstairs about the mess in the house last week...

Fox: Dude do you ever say anything to him about his messes?
BD: Hahaha, na I just ignore it, I'm hardly ever here.
Fox: I don't know how you do it, I would have already killed him.
BD: Well now that I've had to have my parents watch my dog because of the conditions here I think I might start a blog or do something funny, it's too unreal not to share.
Fox: Well that sucks but it's prolly better your dog isn't here, he is gonna burn down the place someday.
BD: Wouldn't surprise me, he took down all the smoke detectors too.
Fox: You really need to tell someone, I dont wanna die because of a Hurricane fire.
BD: I'll give your eulogy. I'll title it "Fire and Hurricanes"
Fox: I'd laugh if I wasn't genuinely scared about that...

I left that weekend and returned very late on Sunday night. Every time I come home I am expecting to be surprised and disgusted, but this time was special. I was even MORE surprised and disgusted than usual. The stench hit me in the face as soon as I opened the front door. A horrid mix of weed smoke, incense and burnt popcorn. I look around and the place is trashed as always, with all the windows open, incense burning and the microwave door ajar. Looking at the formerly white microwave, I knew what happened: the fucker started a legitimate house fire cooking popcorn.

He even had attempted to clean the black out of the interior of it, but it was no help, it's now an ugly brown mix of smoke and probably a bowl of chili that was blown up inside it, just a retched smelling box of half melted plastic and circuit boards. Why the fuck would someone leave this in a house? It's trash! It looks like god damn Chernobyl!

Then I look down the hallway. My bedroom door is closed. My door is never closed. Jesus Christ what the fuck does this mean. Fuck it, lets see what's behind door number two. I walk into my room and the smell is worse in my room that anywhere else in the house. Did he bother to open my bedroom window after the incident? Nope. And not only did he not open my window he closed my door!

That's about the time I remembered I just brought home my dry cleaning. I have 68 dress shirts in my closet, and now every single one of them smells like burnt popcorn. I can handle the wretched smells and messes of the Hurricane's existence at home, mostly because I'm never there, but now his stink is following me to my car, my work and even friend's houses.

I immediately go to do some laundry with double detergent. I grab my first load of clothes, walk to the garage and fire up the washing machine. Soon as I finish throwing my pile of stank in the washer I go to grab some detergent....none left. Hurricane must have needed to do all his clothes and used all the detergent in the process. Nice, fucker. This was a few weeks ago, and there is still no detergent out there. This is now on the list of things I need to keep hidden from him in order to function as a normal human being.

The best part of this entire incident is his lack of any type of acknowledgment that it occurred. Not once over the next couple weeks, while we passed each other many times in the midst of that putrid smell, did he ever mention anything about it. But a close second place is the fact that he continues to use this same microwave. The screen no longer works so he has to guess what the cooking settings and time are and every time it's used the house smells of burnt popcorn. Even weeks later, use that thing at all and it just reeks of burnt popcorn. It's a nice, near daily reminder that my life is in danger.