I really shouldn’t hafta say this more than once…
Scratch that, I shouldn’t hafta say this at all.
Clean out the fucking animal blood you spilled inside the fridge!
Dear New Roommate,
Hey, how’s it going? Settling in and everything?
Look, I just wanted to talk to you about something from yesterday.
I know when we first meet people it can be rough. First impressions can be nerve-wracking.
I mean, you wanna come off as cool, but still establish your boundaries.
Well, one of the boundaries that I must’ve forgotten about is- well, this is awkward… it’s waking up to random girls in our apartment on the couch.
It’s not even so much the fact that the living room is a common area, it’s more- well, “what the fuck?” comes to mind.
I mean, you do you, dude but if we could keep the total randos maybe, like, in your room?
Yeah, that’d be cool too…
If you don’t wanna talk to me for a while after I yelled yesterday, well- well, that’s okay by me.
You’re a good guy, but to say I’m tired of your bullshit is the understatement of the century.
Seriously, if they could turn double standards into an Olympic sport, you’d be Michael fuckin’ Phelps.
I have never seen someone so comfortable imposing judgments on others.
The other day? I wasn’t done cooking, when you sighed heavily, grabbed one of my dishes and oh so kindly put it away for me.
What do I wake up to every morning?
The same bowl on the kitchen table day in and day out because you don’t like having to take a bowl out each morning.
So yeah, it might be awkward for a little while, but I think a little time apart will do us some good… like, maybe we’ll talk on move-out day? How does that work for you? Cuz that sounds great to me.
Look, I’m sure you’re a little nervous about having your brother stay with us.
I get it, it’s already a crowded apartment, plus a dog, and now an 18-year-old? I’d be nervous too.
But there’s one thing I don’t want you to hafta worry about, and that’s me.
I promise to not be the terrible influence that I always seem to be.
No more random hook-ups.
No more drunken nights.
And hell, if you guys are lucky, I might actually start wearing a shirt around here.
… okay, maybe that last one isn’t so realistic, but you know what I mean.
I’ll try to be the better man. After all, I’m already the bigger man, when I’m up against an 18-year-old… okay, that’s exactly the kind of inappropriate joking that I’ll stop from now ow.
I pinky swear.
… crossies don’t count.
Dear Roommate’s Girlfriend,
I call you that because, well, I don’t really know what else to call you.
“Fuck buddy” or “emotionless slut who is slowly breaking his heart ever since you two started sleeping together again after you broke up with him on his birthday” seems like a little too much… plus kinuduva mouth full.
Anyways, I don’t really care what you two are to another. That’s something you folks can sort out on your own time.
Let’s shift focus back to our interactions. After all, that’s the only fair way to judge a person, based on what they’ve said or done to you, right?
Well, for starters, I don’t love when the two of you come home completely unannounced and three sheets to the wind. At least gimme some time to catch up… or, ya know, put some clothes on.
This is the third time you’ve walked in on me half-naked.
We’ve only met four times.
But let’s fast forward, to the portion of the evening where you tried to feed my dog chocolate-covered fruit.
Are you high?!? Dogs can’t eat chocolate and as a woman who has at least three canines living in her house right now, you should probably know that.
Ya know what? No, that’s not fair. Of course you’re not high, cuz as soon as you got home, you hit me up for some pot.
Luckily I didn’t have any, otherwise I would’ve been forced to list the numerous reasons why I wouldn’t share my weed with you.
My personal favorite part of the evening was actually the end. No, not just because it meant that I no longer had to talk to you, but rather because, as you chain smoked on the balcony, I heard every word you said.
No, there was nothing about me, it’s just… well, as you were jokingly telling me about how my roommate was eating you out, I couldn’t help but recall the time our downstairs neighbor came upstairs and asked me to stop listening to Lionel Richie so loudly.
I was playing it on my laptop.
You, miss, are louder than a laptop.
So I hope you really liked that joke you made because I’m pretty sure everyone in our apartment complex heard it.
For the aforementioned reasons, and more, please don’t show your face around here anymore.