My Roommate Sucks

Merry Christmas to all of you, and let’s hope that you won’t have to spend your holiday sharing space with a crappy roommate!

I’m now somehow a bitch because we told the 24 year old roommate who grew up with a microwave that he can’t put Chinese food containers - with metal handles - in the microwave.

The mind boggles.

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1. His huffy attitude!
2. His inability to wash a dish!
3. His inability to stop eating food in my boyfriend’s couch!
4. His internet poverty!
5. His inability to do the simplest of tasks without expecting a reward of some sort!

Actually, most of my roommates haven’t flat-out sucked.  They’ve been all around pretty decent people, just had some flaws that made living with others pretty difficult.  Or, maybe it’s just me and they actually were peaches to live with.  I guess we’ll never know.

But this entry isn’t about that.  This one is about the fact that, humorously, the best roommate I ever had was when I lived in a house with 4 other people.  Even though there was a couple who non-stop argued, one of the guys threw a pissy tantrum over orange American cheese, and I took many a water balloon to the face while living there, it was perhaps the most fun and sane group I’ve ever had the pleasure of living with.

See? Not every roommate experience out there is filled with fail!

Once upon a time, I lived with three (then two) irresponsible potheads.  While they were not bad people, per se, they often did stereotypical potheaded behavior: one lived off of Hot Pockets and Chinese take-out, the next would get high and stare at various tv dramas for hours on end, while the third would often play a game I call “Stoned Build-a-Bong.”  (The rules of which are simple: get stoned and then use household items to build various drug paraphernalia.)

In addition to her bong building ways, the third roommate had two cats.  I picked up a squirt bottle one day to correct the cats, and when my boyfriend would come over, he made a game of correcting them with it.  (On more than one occasion, he’d get them right between the eyes.  Oh, how they hated that.)  My roommate didn’t really care for this.  Her attitude was “let cats be cats.”  This attitude resulted in all of my dining room chairs getting shredded and the destruction of many a knick knack.  But the worst thing about it was that her one cat vomits.  Like, on a regular basis.  Sure, she could have taken him to the vet’s office, but, well, please refer to the first sentence of this passage.

This cat also had a knack for darting into my room in the 37 seconds the door was open and my back was turned.  He’d dive under my queen bed that filled the room, so I often didn’t know he was there.  One particular night, my boyfriend and I were getting ready to go to bed.  I opened my bedroom door, the cat ran out, and my nasal passages were subsequently violently assault with the odor of cat vomit.  (Or cat shit.  I’m still not 100% certain which it was.)

The stench took about a week and a half to get out of my room, even with the window opened (in mid-February!) and a coffee mug filled with vinegar.  When I approached the roommate about it, she laughed and said “the cat pukes! There is even a blog entry about it.”  Okay, cool, but did he really have to do it all over my damn bed?  Seriously?

Every time I get a little misty eyed and reminiscent of living there, I simply remember the cat puke incident.  It kills the majority of my nostalgia in about 37 seconds.

1. Backpacks
2. Shoes
3. Various outerwear
4. Books
5. Popcorn kernels
6. Popcorn (in the box)
7. Frozen, thawing chicken and the ensuing chicken mess

At least this wasn’t the week of the dirty underwear in the kitchen.