Today’s Free Space blog post is a letter to my annoying housemate, whom we shall call Sam, for the sake of anonymity.
I’ve just wandered into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee, and I’ve stumbled across your shrivelled up tea-bag in the washing up bowl on the windowsill.
I have to say, I’m not entirely sure why it is there, because as far as I am aware, the distance between the couch and the bin and the couch and the windowsill is roughly the same. Also, I’m not sure if you’re aware, at approximately 23+ years old, that the bowl for cleaning dishes is not necessarily the right place to store your used up tea-bag. There’s another part to this mystery that I don’t quite understand– why are you even saving it? Surely you can’t be using it again? You’re storing it in the washing up bowl that [until recently] used to contain two month’s worth of stagnant water. Water which, if I may be so bold to remind you, was left in the solitary confinement of the mop cupboard by yourself, since you couldn’t be bothered to do your dishes for two months and preferred the leave them in there out of sight and mind. Well, actually, you preferred to leave them on the bench, in the sink, on the sofa, on the dining table, and on the windowsill, but we all know that I moved them because I was starting to worry we’d not get our deposits back at the end of the year. You also seem to think the sink is a good depository for food and things, and you used this space to throw your two month old water away when you finally got up the nerve to do it, but alas, you didn’t bother to get rid of the food and mold, so it didn’t really do anything but prevent anyone from eating or washing up. Note for future reference, yes you can pour this awful water into the toilet instead, and before you try and repeat your terrible argument of ‘but there were dishes in it’ let me dumb it down for you: simply remove the dishes from the bowl prior to flushing the water away. I’m in awe at the thought of having to tell someone who is likely older than me how to be a semi-responsible adult. It really confuses me that you don’t have your shit sorted out just yet.
You’re still doing all of this, by the way, despite the group chats where we asked you not to. I’d also really really like it if you stopped using the curtains to dry your dishes, since our student accommodation curtains look like they’ve been vomited on numerous times, scribbled on by a child, and they have stains on them which could theoretically be bird poop, but I’m not actually discounting anything at this stage of the game. Whatever the case, they are super-gross and I think you should stop before you kill us all with the diseases hiding in those things.
On top of that, it would be cool if you did things like discard the hair you leave in the shower, and the beard trimmings on the side when you shave. They might not seem like such a big deal, but I’m living in a perpetual state of terror that they will one day clump together, sprout organs and limbs and scuttle around our bathroom like a cross between a spider and Mr. Messy from the Mr Men series. It sounds funny putting it like that, but I also don’t really want to step on it in the dark in the middle of the night.
The other really big issue I have with you is your noise. You make a lot of it. Sometimes it is your strange alt-right podcasts, which you put on while I’m trying to eat my breakfast and I’m not caffeined up enough to tolerate Alex Jones or his friends. Sometimes it is tv shows like House of Cards, and again, if I’m trying to chill out with a glass of wine and a homecooked meal, I don’t really want Kevin Spacey’s character shouting racist and homophobic remarks as I chew. What baffles me is that you carry around headphones, but you never use them in shared spaces. I’m cool with it when you’re in there alone, but it’s a tad rude when I’m in there with a guest, having a conversation and then suddenly BLAM, there’s your music blasting, or your podcasts and you sit and wait for us to hurry away out of the kitchen and leave you to your fun. When you do this, I can’t help but liken you to a dog, eagerly marking your territory all over the sofa and the coffee table so that we know this is your space, despite the fact that we share rent and I don’t want my guest to be forced to eat a bowl of soup in my bed so we’re not invading on you.
Even when you’re not assaulting my eardrums with your awful shows and podcasts, or even your very different taste in music, you’re wandering around super-early in the morning and singing, or else you’re shuffling noisily because you apparently haven’t yet figured out how to lift your feet when you walk. Evolution, eh? P.S. You can’t sing. You sound like a cat on helium, being trodden on repeatedly while being sucked into a vacuum cleaner and to be honest, just trying to sing louder to overcome those bum notes isn’t doing anything for either of us. I’m pretty sure you’re aware of this, because have you heard yourself but just in case let me make it absolutely clear that those people who got made fun of during the audition stages of XFactor have nothing on you. If there were a medal for worst singer ever, I have no doubt you’d have won it, and then left it lying around in the kitchen, perpetually in the way of anyone wishing to use the items they pay rent to use.
Furthermore, and I won’t go into too much detail here, trying to mansplain things like abortion and American politics to me [aka a woman who does American Studies as a post-graduate] isn’t going to make me any more friendly towards you. I don’t care how many times you liken abortion to going around punching pregnant woman in the stomach [eeew by the way], you’re never actually going to be correct and/or change my mind. Just stop trying.
So yeah, thank you dear terrible housemate for making this year an especially awful one, for amping up my anxiety to the point where I loathe being in the kitchen, and where I can’t use the shower after the gym because there’s a mass of Unidentified Curly Hairs [UCHs] in the shower. Thanks also for listening to me rant at you about how much of an effect your behaviour has on my mental health [and the mental and physical health of other flatmates] and then continue to shrug and do what you want to do, because presumably you either don’t give a shit or you’re one of those people who think I’m being a special snowflake and need to calm the fuck down. At least I will always have horror stories to fascinate my friends with.