How I came to love the bomb

Hiroshima is definitely one of the top ten housemates ever. Granted, she won't beat Punky, but it's hard to beat an adorable tree-hugging half-Italian who cycles 40 clicks everyday in Spandex and who'll make you organic pizza just like his Nonna used to make for him (Oh Punky, may you cycle for the rest of your Spandexed-life). Peaches is sort of hard to beat too because a guy who’ll wear a glittery turban, show you his gut and elucidate in an extremely non-PC manner exactly why he hates his home country, and who will proceed every to weeks or so to go into cleaning frenzies using Gumption is just hell to edge out in the entertainment sweepstakes.

But Hiroshima is hardly at home, is extremely amusing and easily amused, never cleans the house but fanatically washes dishes whether they're hers or not, which is a more than fair trade. She cracks me up because she says things like "Sexy, now dead!" while watching Autopsy, and her catchphrase is “NOOIICE!”.

I also have suspicions that the bomb has given her magical powers beyond that of ordinary humans, because in the month and a half that we've been living together, I've never seen hr eat anything aside from junk food and Indomie, yet she doesn't put on weight and she still has all her hair. Amazing.

I recently sent Hiroshima over the moon because I made chocolate muffins from an el cheapo instant mix (I was curious, broke and had muffin cravings, don't hate me, Nigella). They were, predictably, crap, but I told her she could eat as many as she wanted even though they were far below par. I think the bomb also destroyed her tastebuds, because she loved them, and the very next day, gifted me with a tube of mascara whose brand I can't pronounce.

Now I feel strangely obliged to share my food with her to make up for the crappy muffins in exchange for some rather awesome mascara. I foresee a vicious cycle where I give Hiroshima food to make up for presents and she’ll give me presents and it repeats itself again and again until we're both destitute and living on the streets and I have to stay up all night to catch rats to make her ratburgers in exchange for the facial wash samples she will have managed to shoplift out of Myers and we'll have to sleep twined together in someone’s garage we broke into to avoid freezing to death.

Despite that, she still beats the socks off the pet mope.

Edit: I just found out Hiroshia has Windexed the mirror in the bathroom. I love you, Hiroshima!