Ceramic Guilt

This evening I had decided to have a bowl of cereal. "Honey Bunches of Oats with Peaches," to be precise. I opened the cupboard to get a bowl and found guilt staring back at me from a neat stack of ceramic dishware. I do not have any dishes out and in use in my apartment. I moved in and the dish count seemed sufficient, so I left my kitchen things largely out of circulation (except for one massive wok that takes up a ridiculous amount of room, is rarely used, and fits easily nowhere, causing the door of every cupboard it's placed in to be propped open). Now, I don't know that my roommates mind that I use their things--in fact, I don't think they do. But it does make me feel a little guilty when they walk in an I'm eating soup out of one of their bowls that I made in one of their pots and that I am then shoveling in my mouth with one of their spoons. It's kind of demoralizing. Not a lot, but enough so that every time I use something I think (fleetingly, but still, the thought comes) about trying to find my own bowls (I know I have at least two, a blue one and an orange one). But I'm not sure where they are. In the trunk of my car, probably. I could search for them--but I don't want to. It's not like the trunk of my car is some clean, organized space. It's a mess. I know for a fact that it contains one faded, brown and green plaid blanket, a tennis racquet, a knee-length black dress that needs to be dry-cleaned, a beige pea coat that needs to be dry-cleaned (and has needed it for over a year), a cheap chess set, tennis balls at assorted levels of deflation, a blue Nalgene bottle with water in it from roughly 1995, a number of pairs of shoes of the Payless variety, a tie from only heaven knows where, an emergency road kit with it's red triangle sticker peeling off, a half-filled quart of 5W-30, charcoal flakes that chipped off my old muffler when it fell out of the bottom of my car last summer and I picked it up and shoved it in the trunk, a large bottle of handsoap that is leaking, etc. The list goes on, but the more I say, the more sick I feel. Anyway--clearly, I cannot go searching for my bowls. It would be unethical (for me, anyway). But I feel guilty! How to remedy this? I will eat with only my hands or eat things that need no utensils whatsoever. Like grapes. And Poptarts. And Popcorn. And lunch meat.

One of my real concerns is this: even though I reassure myself that my roommates don't care--what if they really do? What if they absolutely cannot stand to have me using all their dishes with my grubby, disorganized-trunk-girl hands? What if it's like every "Matlock" episode ever aired and eventually they will kill me in my sleep because they just couldn't take it anymore--couldn't put up with my antics? The possibilities are horrifying! And unlikely. So, I'll probably just keep using their things. I hope I'm not asking to be struck down my saying something like that. If it makes it any less despicable--I do try to handle the dishware with care.