My South African roommate is pissed at me for using his spices. Why does he not want to share? Did not Mandela in his great struggles speak of unity, sharing the burden of existence between men? He knows I don't have a job. In defiance, I will f**k up his sacred kitchen and other various possessions. A rebellion against his culinary apartheid. Since May 4th, 1990, he's lived in this country, but his accent is yet to assimilate. I heed not his fury, for in this destruction I face the absurdity of existence, where possession crumbles in a world that consumes all meaning.