…we’ll just do an all-text post. Feel free not to read it; it’s more whining than anything else, and not really interesting to anyone but me; you’ll only bitch, and then I’ll have to edit your comments. At which point you’ll bitch more, and I’ll edit more, and really…it’s a vicious cycle. Just hope Suzi posts something over top of it, or something.
I’m seriously edging on the possibility of hating my roomate. I moved to Orlando a few months ago, into an apartment with a friend from high school and some guy he’s friends with. Pete, my friend, is a great guy. Tattoo-covered, Marlboro smoking, metalhead philosophy major with a girlfriend who’s so fucking goth, it probably hurts. He’s pretty funny, pretty cleanly (ie., knows how to use a vaccuum and dishwasher) and is a good enough friend to have sat through a few hysterical crying binges (both in the phone and on person) with me a few times.
Then there’s the other guy, who I’m unfortunate enough to have to share a bathroom with. The guy who still hasn’t unpacked his boxes 3 months into us living here. Who pours himself a glass of that nasty sugar-Koolaid-lemonaide concotion he makes and warns no one else to drink, because it’s his, then spills all over the carpet in a trail back to his room. The 21-year-old guy who dates a 16 year old who has hygeine almost as bad as his…the kind of person who makes me physically ill to the point where I can’t even look at him without gritting my teeth anymore.
He showers every three days, max. I know this because when I mentioned that I have had to scrub out the bathtub four times since we’ve moved in, due to a black scum that mysteriously accumulates to an astonishing degree of filth with a pretty fair regularity, he informed me that he had nothing to do with it, since he only gets in it to shower every few days or so. …Maybe that’s why it happens, dude. Something about stale sweat, and the grease from your disgusting, usually-unbrushed hair. I’ve never had to clean like this before, even with going to the beach during the summer a lot.
So we all decided to share groceries, and just toss in every week, rather than fighting over whose food was whose, and who had what shelf in the kitchen; it worked out well until he demanded change from the $10 he gave me after I brought home a $70.00 receipt. His reasoning being that he didn’t think we needed the various meats (chicken, etc.) that I got, nor the breakfast stuff, nor the noodles, sauces, a bag of chips, toilet paper, sodas, juice, and…well, you really don’t want to hear the whole shopping list. Apparently, he only expected to have to pay for the sliced bread and vineager that he shoves in a bowl together and eats with a spoon. Yet when I cook dinner, he’s the first one in line, a plate clutched between his grubby hands, hovering until he gets what he wants. He’ll EAT the food, apparently, but doesn’t want to pay for it.
Or the time Shawn did his laundry over at our apartment, and used his detergent; I was informed AFTER Shawn had left (because apparently homeboy is too much of a pussy to say it to another man’s face) that I owed him five bucks, since my boyfriend had used his stuff. Which I can understand, if only his Wal-Mart brand laundry shit cost that much. Or if Shawn had used all of it. Or if I were the person who actually USED it, and therefore caused the “extra” expenditure.
It’s finicky, and probably anal retentive, but something about a person who leaves a plate full of dinner scraps sitting on the couch, the fork next to it (ON the couch) until someone else cleans it up isn’t exactly someone I want to live with. Someone who uses the orange plastic cup for weeks on end, leaving it sitting out and never washing it between drinks, no matter what’s crusted onto the bottom, is kinda disgusting.
I’m pretty neurotic about keeping the place clean. I sweep, mop, vaccuum and dust every week before work one day. So the fact that upon coming home at 3 in the morning, after serving drunk, obnoxious private college kids overpriced beer all night, I get whined at that he had to do dishes today…it doesn’t really sit too well. The way I figure it, if I clean and cook dinner most nights and do the dishes afterwards, the occasional load of dishes or general picking up isn’t something I should have to hear you bitch about. I’m certainly not OWED anything, since I’d clean no matter what, and I enjoy cooking…but I don’t owe YOU anything for doing your share, either.
Maybe it’s his voice, too, as shallow as it is. A lisping sort of speech impediment probably caused by his disporportionately large jaw. Maybe it’s just him. A computer science major with fewer people skills than a boarhog, contrasted with more book smarts in the SINGLE area of learning that he’s interested in. A superiority complex that far surpasses anything I can muster, even on the bitchiest day. Selfish, lazy kid whose mother has cleaned up after him his whole life; to the point of doing his laundry for him and folding it…I think he just expects any female he lives with to fall into that role, actually.
I just…augh, I don’t know. It pisses me off that I can go spend the weekend in Cocoa, come back happy and not-bitchy and relaxed, then as soon as I walk in the door, he’s THERE, just SITTING THERE on the couch, saying something stupid.
I suppose it’s my own fault, at least partially, that I let some idiot kid get to me…that I let anyone get me worked up, actually. I think that’s my main thing…letting major problems pass me by, just ignoring them and smiling, but blowing up (internally or where people can see) at small annoyances.
…
Oh, hell. Here’s some more pictures.
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