Clean the Castle

I am convinced our landlord is not a real human any longer but in fact a phantasm considering his ability to pick up rent and leave notes while never being seen by anybody. He ghosted into the house the other day and left a nice word-processed sheet of paper listing off all the things we have to clean in the house in order to get our deposits back. Being the cynic that I am, I just figured he would screw us out of that $300, so I never really thought twice about what chores I could do in order to get my allowance. It turns out our incorporeal landlord wants us to do much more than just clean. He wants a DEEP clean. Like when the dental hygenist makes your gums bleed because she is digging out the pieces of candy cane left in your teeth and gums since Christmas, the whole time saying "when is the last time you flossed?" all condescendingly. That kind of uncomfortable, "you're too close to my face and your breath smells like scotch" dental-hygenist clean.

First of all, the Monstrosity currently resembles a medieval castle in terms of cleanliness. There are piles of sheets, towels, lint, socks, mattresses, and carboard boxes stacked to the ceiling in the laundry room. Two of the four laundry machines actually work, and those that work tend to spew spores into the air anytime they are engaged. The hallways are littered with cups, plastic bags, more socks, probably some weapons, definitely a dead body, and I'm pretty sure there are some good CD's sitting buried under a pile of trash waiting patiently for some amateur archaeologist to come dig it out. There is dirt everywhere, even places where dirt shouldn't technically be, like on ceilings and anywhere above the first floor. It is fun to try and puzzle out how a pile of dirt made it all the way up to the third floor. Someone would have had to carry dirt two stories with the sole purpose of placing dirt there. What's more baffling is that most likely that scenario did not happen. There is some other explaination for that dirt, and it keeps me awake at night. The kitchen has new species of animal life quickly evolving out of months-old cheese beer soup courtesy of Garrett Stiles. I doubt he knew he would be fathering a new civilization when he cooked up that meal of the gods.

Personally I think we would be doing the landlord a bigger favor if we just blew up the place. He'd probably get a lot of insurance money, and then he could clean up the lot and sell it for primo bucks. They'll probably build something stupid here, like another winery or a T.G.I Friday's, but at least there won't be the possibility of getting sued after someone falls off your stoop and breaks their arm in half.