I hate these fucking roommates.
RRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAARGH!
Goddamn it!
First of all, welcome to the preferred list. You now have full access to the unexplicably contradictory thoughts that run through my mind between the hours of 1 and 4 a.m.; not to mention first-hand accounts of HOW MUCH I FUCKING HATE ROOMMATES.
God damn.
(Secondly, if you haven't been able to read the first rant, entitled "You're so vain, you probably think this blog is about you." You can do so freely now. Congratulations. You can either look for it from my myspace blog pages, or click the link to be redirected to another blog I quasi-maintain. It's the same entry.)
Anyway...
Up until now, I had only heard of the horrors of living with people you don't care for and even after my grief-stricken friends described in vivid, wild detail the terror that lurked under their very noses all throughout college (I was lucky enough to have my own apartment: my mom knew it was bad for my GPA to live with other people), I still couldn't have imagined it being this aggravating. And when I say "aggravating," I mean for me... you know... anti-social and all.
Would this bother you?
Ok. So. Yesterday, Dustin asked me to water the lawn 5 times during the day because, as chemical reactions would have it, adding ammonium nitrate to a lawn which is not properly hydrated will yeild nothing. Thus, the lawn must be extremely wet and happy.
I was reluctant, because I'm lazy, but I agreed to do it.
He gave me a simple 5-step plan to water the fucking front lawn.
1. Turn the water on.
2. Go to the timer device, which is in the garage, and set it to "manual single."
3. Set the time for 20 minutes.
4. Set it to "Run."
5. Remember to turn the water off.
Ok, check. Got it. We ran through it twice and I understood. I also acknolwedged the fact that (a) there is poor pressure within the system and that there's something wrong with it "internally," if you will, which will not be taken care of any time soon and (b) two sprinkler heads are broken and/or poorly-functioning, plus one busted draining system. The combination of (a) and (b) results in A LOT of water getting wasted and running down into the street, touching only the edges of the rectangular section of grass that lies adjacent to the street. Fine. That's fine. That just means I have to be on top of shit and remember to turn the damn thing off after the set 20 minutes.
So, this morning, my darling tells me to get my fat ass out of bed and remember to water the lawn. I groan and he offers to text me periodically throughout the day so that I'll know exactly when to do it.
10:30 a.m.
I get a much-dreaded text. A few minutes later, I go downstairs (no one out there at the time), through the kitchen to the laundry area where the door to the garage is located. I go out and open the garage door. I do the first 4 required steps... and while looking out onto the small yard, I notice that there are many patches of grass that just aren't getting any water.
So... I find a container, small as it may be... just a simple jar... the kind kids use to trap insects and torture them to death (all in the name of scientific inquiry, of course). I take this jar and fill it with water and start attacking the patches while the sprinklers take care of the rest. I do this, quite inefficiently, I admit, but without complaint. It's not a fucking big deal, I tell myself. And it really wasn't. Because, really, it was my own anal retentive choice to water the patches--it was neither required nor asked of me! Which means it wasn't a problem and I wanted to do it.
The 20 minutes are up and I turn the system off. That really wasn't so bad...
4 hours later, I get another friendly reminder that I have to water the lawn.
Great.
A cold chill enters and then quickly exits my body as I realize that the two mother fuckers, Clair and Marcus, are sitting in the living room watching TV.
I non-eventfully pass the television and mutter an "excuse me" which goes unanswered. Recently, I noticed that they've been a little less interactive with me. They avoid making eye contact and haven't been saying 'how are you?' as much... it almost seemed as if they were mad at me. PERFECT. I thought I hit the fucking jackpot... "Maybe they'll stop talking to me?" I smiled to myself... It was too fucking good to be true.
Anyway, I get my shoes and sneak past the TV again. I mutter another "sorry," or some such pardon and go out to the garage. I open the garage door and as it makes its distinctive noise... I can almost feel Clair's ears perk up. Of course, in that ominous, "There's-a-storm-a-comin'" sort of way.
I repeat the steps as per Dustin's instructions. I turn the system back on, set it to "manual single," set the time, and then to "Run." I attend to the patches again.
As I'm doing this, I see Clair in my peripheral view and I say to myself, "Ya Allah, what have I done to deserve this?"
Ok.
Maybe I didn't really say that; that's the kind of stuff my mom says when I piss her off... but I was pretty goddamn upset that she, in her fucking pajamas, mind you, decided to peel herself off the couch to come see what I was doing.
There are no words for my hatred and anger right now.
If I had created hell, and should I have had the foresight to divide and organize it into varied levels of intensity, the worst, most vile, most accursed section of my hell would be reserved specifically for nosey people. Guess who'd make it there first? JUST GUESS.
Clair: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Um. Dustin put me in charge of watering the lawn."
Clair: "Oh he did?"
No, I'm lying to you bitch.
Me: "Yeah. I was hoping he would've gotten one of the men to do it, but meh."
Clair: Blah blah blah.
Sorry, I don't know what she was saying because my ears just couldn't give a shit. I kept watering the lawn with my random-ass glass jar and stumbled in and out of her monologue about broken sprinklers, how certain maintenance organizations are required to service her needs (fucking liberal), and how when she ripped up the kitchen floor, it wasn't really her fault, it was "their" (Who? I don't know. I don't care.) fault for not putting runners on the bottom of the fridge, etc. I was minding my own business as she hummed incessantly, and just to keep time, I intermittantly nodded and agreed... to what, exactly, I was agreeing, I am still quite unaware.
Clair: "Let me get Marcus out here."
WHAT!?!
BITCH! NO!
Me: "Uh... no... don't bother him... he's sitting on the couch..."
Clair: "No! It'll be ok, let me get him out here."
Why? Why? Why?
Why the fuck do you need to bring that half-dead cock-sucker out here? Why? What the hell is he going to do for me? What the fuck could he possibly do in the time between right now and death that could, even minutely, make my life worth living?
Ok, well, I take it back... if you bring him out here so that he should somehow meet an untimely and entertainingly obscure end, then yes, by all means, call the fucker out here. However; if you don't intend on murdering him, or even inadvertently causing his expiration, don't bring his lemon-head out here (his head is MUCH larger than his body... he resembles the lemon-head logo... it's truly uncanny).
Give it a slight tan and replace that shit-faced smile with a look of utter confusion and you'd never be able to tell the difference.
Like a tired zombie, Marcus takes slow, pain-staking steps towards me as Clair contrasts his sleepy gait with her rapid, high-pitched and upward-inflected nagging. (I'm not kidding, Marcus is 50 percent inert). Clair seems to make up for his partial necrosis by being a fucking nosey chatterbox.
So, as Marcus crawls out of the house, I swear to God, all of a fucking sudden, as if he were spontaneously generated from the air I was regretfully breathing at that moment, Chris (!), the other roommate, appeared on my left side, smiling like a jack-ass! Swear. To. God. I neither saw nor or heard him leave the house or walk up that close to me. It was insanity. All three of them were out there to see what was up.
All I wanted to do was do my boyfriend a favor. Jesus, fucking Christ. Are you serious? All three of you are THAT curious about why I left the house? Are you kidding? Was there really NOTHING to watch on TV? You fuckers are about as attatched to that idiot-shit-box, if not more so, than a 95-year-old-chain-smoker and a packet of Marlboros. What extrodinarily interesting thing could I have possibly done to make you willingly break fidelity with your precious television? What? Water the fucking lawn with a jar? Are you joking?
Marcus: Blah blah blah (to Clair)
Clair responds similarly.
He turns to me and asks...
Marcus: Why are you doing this?
Because, you fucking worm, I decided I want to try my hand at landscaping, now stop stifling my inner artist!
FUCK YOU!
Me: Because Dustin asked me to.
Marcus: Dustin asked you to do this?
What the fuck is this? Which is it, are you deaf or retarded?
I was extremely irritated at this point and so, I responded quite loudly and sternly:
Me: No. This is actually how I want to spend my life. Do you think I just randomly want to do this?
Clair laughed nervously to break the tension and Marcus followed suit. I swear to God. These fuckers need to be shot twice: once in the face and once in the genetalia, just in case.
Clair: You know it would be better to use the hose.
Marcus: Yeah, it would be more efficient in terms of cost to use the hose.
Oh fucking pardon meeee! I didn't know I had to consult a fucking economist before I decided to pour a little H2O over your lawn. My mistake. How could I have not considered the cost-to-profit ratio your majesty?
Suck my dick, dude. Just die already.
Clair: Why don't you use the hose?
Me: Because that would require me to go to the backyard, unscrew it from it's current position, roll it over my shoulder, pick it up, walk it through the house, bring it to the front yard and then screw it in.
Clair: Heh...
Yeah. Chuckle all you want bitch. I was already complaining to Dustin about pushing a few buttons on an automatic system. What the fuck makes you think I'm going to put that much effort into a house THAT ISN'T MINE!?! Get over yourself! It's not even your house! You're renting it from someone else! Why do you care so much about every inch of this tiny, cramped hell-hole? Go do something with your life goddamn it! Have a kid or get an education or... or... something! Do something! I mean, something besides busy-bodying your fat ass all over the place; filling the universe with crappy pottery art. You're such a GRANDMA. Jesus.
I shit you not, people, (and there are witnesses!) the two-car garage is FULL of her yard-sale bullshit. That trash must be worth well over $4,000! God Almighty, give me the balls to suddenly sell all her crap in a violent and massive yard sale and use the profits to purchace a trip to Cancun! I wouldn't even really need to buy tickets! I'd float there, fueled only by adrenaline and my own self-satisfaction. You'd never be able to wipe the smile off my face.
As Marcus continues to scold me about wasting water (Dad? Is that you? I thought I never had to deal with you again once I turned 18! WTF?) Clair comes back with the hose. She hooks it up and starts watering... shit-you-not... the cement.
The fucking cement.
Do you know whyyyyy she's watering the cement? To get rid of debris.
That's right. Debris.
I stood there with a confounded look on my face, hands in my pockets, wondering what went wrong this fine afternoon, and pondered the irony of getting my ass reamed for wasting water by her boyfriend.
God? Are... are you watching this? DO SOMETHING!
GAH.
Then, I say to the bitch: "So, you're gonna leave the hose there?"
Clair: Yeah.
Me: Ok, I'll come back and use it later then.
Clair: Do you know how the nozzle works on this one?
Are...
Are you joking?
I'm taking Organic Chemistry and passing. You think I can't flip a small knob?
You think I'd have to ask for your help to use a fucking hose? A HOSE for God's sake... how hard could it possibly be? Is it magic? Is there a fucking cockpit? Does it want you to do integral calculus first? It's a fucking hose!
I intend on studying neuroscience for the rest of my life... I think I can manage a fucking garden hose.
You're the same mother fucker who sat on the couch and lectured me that, and I fucking QUOTE:
"Americans equivalate sophistication with the British accent."
Equivalate.
Americans now "equivalate" shit.
Amazing.
Get a fucking dictionary! English is supposed to be your first language you moron! I'm the goddamn foreigner, not you. You don't get to get away with that shit.
That was supposed to be her revolutionarily insightful commentary after I smugly mused that the show she was watching, Rome, has a bunch of Romans speaking, not Latin of course, but English. And with a British accent, no less!
"Well, that's because Americans equivalate sophistication with the British Accent."
Woooooooow. I'm impressed. Where'd you get your sociology degree, professor? The bottom of a fucking Cracker Jack box?
"Ooh goodie! Let me guess... is it... the extent of my education? Perhaps a functional vocabulary! I really could use one of those!"
Fucking brain-dead whore.... AAAAAAAGHHHH!
These fuckers are shaving years off of my lifespan! I'm going to die of a heart-attack at 30!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!