I don’t give a fork.

Yesterday I asked one of my roommates if there were any dishes in his room? He told me in the dismissive tone, maybe a coffee cup and a plate , maybe.
Two maybes in one sentence might seem like a lot of maybes for such a simple question.

But my Roomate is a black belt in the art of making excuses.

He often will tell me that whatever it is that I complain about is not really a big deal. That my facts are wrong.
That I am over reacting.
It was not him who did it anyway,
And I am basically racist for even pointing it out.

The last part is his finishing move, delivered after we have stoped taking.
He will walk up to me and scrunch up his face, in what is clearly meant to show how much it bothers him to have to deal with something so unpleasant, but which mostly makes him look like he has gas.
And in an almost offhand way, he will point out some small thing he has noticed and ask me if I have been talking about whoever did that?
And then shake his head and say of course,and then some version of “white privilege”

So clearly the idea of asking him about the dishes was a waste of my time.

I don’t have the slightest idea where all the forks went.
Or why there is what looks like a pair of underwear on the stairs near my room.

Today my breakfast was a simple affair, and I noticed to late that my coffee supply was dangerously low. So it’s green tea today for me.
And a plastic fork.

So says the Mykl.