Maria asks me if Ashley’s mad at her. I tell her I don’t know. She then asks if I have any idea what could make her mad. I mention the beer bottles that have been sitting there all weekend. “They aren’t mine, they aren’t Ashley’s. Someone’s got to clean up after themselves.”
Maria’s response: “They’re Mike’s.”
“So are you going to ask him to come up and clean up, or are you going to clean up after your guest?”
“No, listen, this is how it is. I only had two beers, and Mike had like, six,” She then explains everything that I just told her with with many useless words and little sense. She then declares that she can’t clean up because there’s no room in the trash can.
“So take change the bag.”
“I don’t know where to take it.”
“I’ll show you. Clean up.”
“Look, I only drank two…” and she goes on again about how much she drank.
“That doesn’t matter. Unless you want to set those bottles in front of Mike’s door, you’re cleaning them up.”
“Okay, mom.”
“Those bottles have been sitting there all weekend.”
“They’ve been sitting there two days! Mike ordered Pizza and beer!”
“And you had Mike over on Friday night when I came back. You two never clea-”
“We cleaned that up! He was over Monday again.”
“Fine, fine, whatever, just clean it up already.” The bottles had most definitely been there since Friday, unless she cleaned up, and they made the exact same mess and placed the bottles in the exact same spots with the exact same amount of beer in them on Monday.
She comes up with another brilliant defense. “What about those dishes, huh? How long have they been sitting there? Since last week?”
“They aren’t mine.”
“But still…”
“Come on,” I said, and lifted the garbage bag I’d been tying off.
She followed me to the trash chute, all the while bitching about how she’d rather we talk to her face than bitch behind her back (which we hadn’t done.) She then got in the lift and took the beer bottles to Mike’s apartment.
And she’s 24. Fucking immature.