the salad affair; or, reason #221 why I wish I could afford to live by myself

Sometimes, I feel like the headmistress at a boarding house. Our fridge smells funky and I assume this is because of a bag of salad mix in the fruit drawer that has been sitting there so long it has turned to liquid. Something I did not even want to make bodily contact with me, otherwise I would have just chucked it. I asked Jillian if it was hers. Nope, that's not mine, I thought it was yours, it must be Adele's. Hm. So I asked Adele this evening if it is hers. She says no. I ask her if she is sure. A confirmed no, that's not mine, I thought it was Jillian's. So now, the burden falls on me to clean up this disgusting liquid puddle of salad that surely, did not walk into our house, into our fridge on its own accord. I want to wag my fingers until someone claims it, but know that will do no good. And you know what, I might not clean it, might see whose will to stomach that smell is the strongest. Maybe one of them will break first and clean up the mess that is obviously one of theirs.