When I was 22(ish) I lived in a house with four 22(ish) year old boys. Disgusting, dirty, vile, inconsiderate 22(ish) boys. One of them played volleyball. He would come home from practice, take all his stinking, sweaty clothes off in the dining room and put them on the dining room table, then go upstairs to have his shower. Our fridge was where vegetables went to die. Another flatmate lost his hedgehog (named Peaches) for two weeks. A rodent. Loose in the house. I kept my food under my bed so those a-holes wouldn’t eat it and then put the empty containers back in the cupboard as was their habit.
Those boys could take lessons from my current flatmate. They got nothing on her.
Most of the stories I’m telling (with pictorial evidence, about which I know you are so stoked) revolve around her. I’ve never seen anyone so messy and inconsiderate (or go through so much toilet paper and not replace it) in my life. It is unbelievable. She seems nice enough, but good gravy I wouldn’t want to live with her.
Except I currently live with her.
She has a habit that I want to share because I need the sympathy on this one. I need you to tell me I’m not being unreasonable. I want to know that the fact that I haven’t actually maimed her yet in some way is testament to how patient I am actually being about this entire situation.
It is often noisy in our house. One of the flatmates plays alto sax (but well, so I actually dig that). People come and go at all hours and my room is at the bottom of the stairs.
The inconsiderate flatmate, who is only slightly taller than one of the oompa-loompas and doesn’t weight but a buck oh five (soaking wet), manages to sound like Andre the freakin’ Giant coming down the stairs. Worse? She knows it. She’s mentioned to me about how loud the sound of her crashing down the stairs must be. And. she. keeps. doing. it. anyway.
::END SIDE NOTE::
Our flat faces Hoxton Street so there is noise from out there too. To say the least, I often wear my headphones in my room when I’m watching movies or listening to tunes. And I have no real choice but to put in earplugs at night or there isn’t a hope of getting to sleep or staying there.
For all those audio annoyances, there is really only one noise in this house I can’t handle. I can hear it over my music. I hear it even with my earplugs in. It haunts my dreams and I hate it SO MUCH that every time I hear it, I actually mutter “oh for fuck sake!” to myself and flip my flatmate the bird through my closed door.
I know. I know! You must be DYING to find out what sound could possibly be making me insane. Over and above everything else that makes me want to harm small fluffy things that I put up with in this freaking flat, what in Aurghville could possibly be driving me to the very edge of the sliver that’s left of my sanity?
She continuously – and I mean continuously – is horking up snot.
You know that sound. The sound of someone scraping up a huge wet smack of snot from (apparently, judging from the sound) all the way down by their feet to swirl around in their mouth before projecting their diseased little present somewhere.
But wait! There’s more!
What could be worse than the sound? That retch-inducing hateful sound? Well… I hear her doing the big hork-o-rama quite often in the bathroom. And I’m assuming (hoping?) that she’s spitting that shit out. Because the idea that she’s pulling that up and swallowing it again is more than I can stand.
Or at least, I would have hoped that she was spitting it out before. But you know what? After hearing her bring up a good ‘un… I don’t hear the sound of it’s disposal.
Where’s that loogie going?
No toilet flush. No running water. So that means if she’s spitting it in the sink, she’s not rinsing the sink. Or she’s just letting ‘er float around in the toilet, waiting for me to have to go in there and look at it.
Well, I found out where one of them went tonight. And this makes me sick, boys and girls. I’ve definitely had enough with this one and I’m not even out of fucking stories about Aurghville.
To be fair, I’m not 100% sure that the puddle pictured is actually spit. It isn’t as though I took it down to the lab and had it analysed. But what does it look like to you? And I need to point out that those tiles are my bathroom floor. The bathroom in my house. The bathroom that I (thank goodness) always put my flip-flops on to go into. The general bathroom ick on the floor was bad enough. But did she have to just go ahead and drop a sample of plague on the floor?
Now, the only thing potentially worse than that pool of sickness is that brown… thing… beside it. What the freakshow is that? Please, please, please… tell me it isn’t what it looks like. Please. Because I don’t think wearing flip-flops will be enough to protect me if that little cretin has actually dropped a turd on the floor beside her pool of spit. Seriously. I’m going to need one of those decontamination foot baths they use in areas where they suspect mad cow disease.
I can’t take much more of this. Here’s hoping that I find work soon so I can find a new place to live as soon as humanly possible. Because if I don’t kill the other citizens of Aurghville for their disgusting habits, I’m going to die of the diseased grossness that they seem hell-bent on leaving around.
PS: She made that loogielicious noise TWICE while I was typing up this post. And I type fucking fast. Would someone please take me out into a field and put a shotgun to the back of my head? A swift death in a field would, at this point in time, be so much less painful than continuing to live life in Aurghville.