My roommate approached me just now with yet another "issue." I like how she waited until after Robert went home to spring this new assault on me. Actually, in that regard, I am genuinely grateful. I'm starting to think that she's making things up, or else planting evidence to attempt to use against me. The knock came. I opened the door. And there's the Mistress of Terror herself, holding the frying pan up.

Mistress of Terror: Um, Phil? Phil: Yeah? MoT: I pulled the frying pan out of the cabinet and found it like this (holds up pan to show a mark and a speck of dust). Phil: Uh huh. MoT: Generally, when you clean it with soap and water, this sort of thing doesn't show up. Phil: ... MoT: ... Phil: What do you want me to do about it? I can go clean it? MoT: No, I just went to go cook with it and found it like this.

I'm convinced she's making this up for further excuses to gripe about me. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the last person to use it, either. But how would I know, right? Because every time I take out the rack to put the dishes in to dry, she takes it down and puts it away.

I suppose that the one good thing about no longer having company is that I'm free to look for that elusive new place to live. I'm so getting on that. Like, now.