I've been in a new apartment for 12 days. Its location might not be better, particularly for me. It's in one of the hippest parts of Madrid: right on the border between Lavapiés and La Latina. It's a ten minute walk from the train station I take to go to work. I'm at five minutes walking distance from one of my closest friends from my time studying abroad in Spain two years ago. It's in a charming building. It has to be about a century year old, with sagging wooden stairs and no elevator. But no matter, I live on the second floor: only two small flights of stairs to haul my baggage.

I was proud of my decision. It was apartment no. 33 that I had visited, exactly three weeks after I arrived in Madrid. I brought the cash with me, and I arrived 15 minutes early to my appointment with the rental agent. I didn't like going through a rental agent, and I didn't like that the ad didn't post pictures, but I didn't care. I just wanted a roof. The roommates were cooking dinner in the kitchen, and they were all foreign exchange students from Italy and Germany. All guys, but no matter, it beat living with someone 20 years older than me. I checked out the room, which had the shocking amenities of not only a bed but a desk and a closet. It didn't have windows, but I didn't care. As someone else arrived early for my agent's next appointment, I told the agent I'd take the room. I'd calculated earlier that, with all fees included, my rent would come out to about 400 euros a month. Still a bit pricey, but hell, it's less than half my monthly salary. I never knew what that felt like in America. I signed the papers that day. I moved in two days later.

That's when I realized my roommates are fucking animals.

As they had been cooking, I didn't really notice anything awry with the kitchen. I wish I had known earlier that after cooking, they made zero effort to put their appropriate utensils and foodstuff in their appropriate places. You know, like the sink. Or the garbage can. Or that instead of taking the trash to the curb when it got full, they simply added another bag and piled them next to each other, along with countless empty liter-sized beer bottles, the prizes of lives going down the drain. But whatever they're kids, nineteen yea- oh what? Oh, they're 23? My age? Huh.

I wish I had known earlier that cockroaches were rampant. I'm also terrified of insects: the amount of roach-killing equipment I've purchased only proves my personal vendetta against them. You wonder if the prevalence of cockroaches has anything to do with the fact there's garbage everywhere. Or if because instead of throwing away wrappers, empty cartons, and fruit peels, my roommates leave them on the table for days. I wish I'd known earlier I'd have to clean up after them just so I could stomach eating a sandwich in the kitchen (I've given up and resorted to eating in my room. The stove, however, is still out of commission as they leave half-full pots of soup and concoctions of potatoes and peas on it. Also for days.) I wish I'd known earlier I was the only one who finds this behavior intolerable.

Despite the fact my rental agent yelled at them for smoking cigarettes in the kitchen, they not only smoke cigarettes every day and stink up the poorly ventilated place but they smoke pot. Despite the fact I don't smoke pot, I ordinarily wouldn't care, but it lends them a complacency toward cleanliness that any woman who's dated a pothead can attest to. When you're high all the time, why would you stress out over your roach-infested kitchen?

The first few days I was in the apartment I caught a terrible cold, probably due to the fact I work with dozens of often-sick children and because I sleep little due to the work schedule. I was irritable and unable to sleep some nights. This didn't improve my diplomacy skills. Whilst drinking juice out of a glass in the kitchen, I saw one of my other roommates — the only native Spanish speaker but I frankly don't care to ask him where he's from — go to the adjacent bathroom and clean a glass by pouring the liquid down the toilet and washing it with his hands and hand soap (that I'd purchased hours earlier) in the bathroom sink. You know, the one right next to the kitchen sink. I did what any sane person would do in that situation and yelled at him. In his pot-fueled haze, he retorted that there wasn't really a difference and that I can't be mad with him because I'm the new guy.

I buckled and apologized about 10 minutes later, simply because I didn't want anyone to have ill will toward me. I regret it because I was right.

I later mentioned to my other roommates, who were all smoking in the kitchen, that maybe we should have a schedule for who takes out the trash. Like maybe a different guy takes it down every day one week and we rotate. At that point, I'd been living there for five days and was the only one who seemed to notice that the trash was overflowing every day and that this necessitated taking out, by yours truly. They simply chuckled and said whoever saw it should take it down. Great logic, guys.

A disorganized living space doesn't bother me too much. I'm not exactly the neatest person in the world. But bacteria and vermin and poor hygiene disgust me, disorient me, and make me feel shitty. I was cursing under my breath clearing the kitchen several times a day. I was (unwisely) penting up my energy when one of the German roommates came in. He took out a juice carton identical to one I saw on the table just sitting there for three days. I asked him if the one on the table was his. He confirmed. Rather curtly, I asked him why he didn't just put it in the trash. He got offended and asked me what my problem was. That he always saw that I was mad about cleaning stuff up. And that I live in a shared space, and I need to respect others (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). He said that I saw the apartment and should've known better than to move in with them (despite the fact they were cooking and I simply was desperate... but I didn't mention it at that point because I found the situation to still be solvable). He said he didn't find the kitchen dirty and that I need to stop worrying about being clean all the time. We're all moving out at the end of January, anyway. What's the point of taking out the trash and washing a dish?

If that doesn't at least irritate you, please fuck off and never speak to me again.

Anyway, I genuinely asked him how to nicely ask him to clean the kitchen. I really don't know. If something is not immediately obvious to one person but horrific to someone else, how does the latter convince the former? It's like trying to convince a blind man you want the color red stricken from your shared living quarters. Anyway, he responded that he just wanted to know what I wanted. I told him, like I was his mother, that I just wanted trash in the can and glasses/plates in the sink. I felt like an idiot talking to an even more foolish one. We eventually made up, and, knowing he was involved in some kind of political science program, started to talk about what I knew of European politics. Even the other roommates came in coincidentally, and I was able to bring it up. They all nodded. I wasn't thoroughly convinced they'd do anything, but it was a step in the right direction.

For about 24 hours, they actually put their glasses in the sink. Things have gotten worse since then.

I've placed so many traps and so much spray that the cockroach problem has decreased somewhat. I only see about one a day now. But Christ, that kitchen. It's a miracle the bathroom isn't a colony for maggots. I wouldn't exactly call it clean, but the bathroom is actually tolerable. The kitchen has somehow gotten worse. Due to extraordinary circumstances, I didn't come home one night. When I returned, the trash looked like it tripled. 1/5 fewer people were home and that same percentage was the only one taking out the trash that day. And not a single thank you.

I understand that I'm fucked no matter what. You can't convince a pig not to be a pig. I wield no power. I'm the new guy. Even if I were a close friend, what's the difference? If they cleaned it, nothing good would happen (they perceive. Of course, in my view that means fewer cockroaches, a more focused mental state, and an increase to the probability that if a female saw the apartment, she would return.) If they don't clean it, there's no perceivable downside (besides the corollary to what I've just mentioned). There's no tangible reason to clean it. Except for reason itself.