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I'm going to kill Samil. But I'll get to that later.

Yesterday morning Samil realized he had to iron clothes before work. He found this to be "such a drag." Welcome to the real world, buddy. Now, if you're planning on ironing clothes, with a hot iron, you might not want to plant yourself just around a corner of a hallway, kneeling on the floor, using one of those tiny ironing boards. Because I won't see you until its almost too late. And then I might knock you over. And you're holding a hot iron. Luckily, despite my being exhausted and all, I managed to see him at the last second and avoid catastrophe.

Samil was not so lucky a little later on when he burned his clothes. He didn't burn them so bad that they looked like an ironed shirt in a cartoon, with a big black iron outline on the back. Just a little nick down at the bottom of a pant leg. Still, this was clearly not his fault. He was, after all using one of those "high tech looking irons" that apparently, because of their high tech looks, are clothes-burning proof. Even if you turn the iron to the high setting. And even if you don't put any water in the high tech water reservoir. (this is totally irrelevant, but Samil also couldn't work the high tech automatic electricity cord winder upper, which also tells me he's going to have trouble using my high tech vacuum.) What's most bothersome to me is that he expresses these problems in a way that implies that its my fault because its my stuff. You see, its all my stuff because I lived in an apartment before and bought all the things one has in an apartment.

Later on yesterday I had my after school program while Samil came home and met out landlord to pick up keys for the permanent apartment we'll be staying in (right above this one). When he left the place with the landlord, he for no reason locked the door knob. The door knob is busted up and has no functioning key. The only way into this apartment is through that door. So last night when I went to start moving stuff in, I found myself locked out of my own new apartment, holding a box of books, confused why I couldn't open the door when the new key was working just fine.

So Samil has me call our landlord because he's too busy munching on Chinese food. He also informs me to ensure she doesn't know it was his fault. After going back and forth with the landlord to just explain "yes, the key works, but no the door doesn't open," she got really confused until she remembered the busted lock on the door and said "oh, yes, there is another lock but nobody has ever used that lock and we've never had a key for it, ever." The second ever made me die inside a little. Somehow, our landlord did have a very clear memory of Samil NOT locking the door, or a vivid memory of something that didn't happen. Still, good for him, I guess. "Okay, well, I'm in South Jersey, and I can't get back until tomorrow some time. I don't know what to tell you."

After getting off the phone, I told Samil the news. "That sucks. Man, why would you not have a key for the lock?' This was when I almost killed Samil. Some of us have schedules, and we stick to them. Some of also, I think at least, take ownership of mistakes and things we do wrong.

But I won't kill him, because right after this happened, Samil sprinted to the kitchen because Chinese food was too hot. That was pretty funny, wimp.