A Letter to Our High Maintenance Roommate

Dear 2-year old roommate,

Let me start by saying it’s not you, it’s us. I mean, we are just different people, us roommates.

We like to wear pants in the house for example. You parade around more naked than Justin Bieber on a vacation balcony.

Well when you put it that way - sure I will go outside

Well when you put it that way – sure I will go outside

We like to sleep in, make it a nice easy-going Saturday and sort of ease into our weekend. You like to wake up before 6am and repeatedly bang matchbox cars on the hardwood floor. Afterwards you tug on our arms while screaming “Outside!” atop your lungs. Sure, the first time is cute. But by the time the fourth one comes bellowing out of your mouth we’re almost certain you’re possessed by the four horseman of the apocalypse and a pack of revenge-seeking apparitions who likely fell down a well during their time on earth, and still haven’t quite resolved that minor issue posthumously.

Here are a few other things us roommates have observed.

Look, you stink. And you lie about it.

Wait, so you haven't been living in our spare room? Then what is possibly causing that smell? Wait a second...

Wait, so you haven’t been living in our spare room? Then what is possibly causing that smell? Wait a second…

No, honestly. You smell wretched at times. And when we ask you where the stench is coming from, you always have no clue. We’ll literally see you straining, and then two minutes later an odoriferous atrocity that only a herd of zombie cattle who took up residence in our den for weeks could’ve produced wafts through the living room.

Your cars are giving me flesh wounds

During the day your cars are neatly organized. Miraculously, when I’m hung over and attempting to reach the bathroom in the middle of the night one always seems to be parked strategically in my path. Typically it’s one with multiple sharp edges that fit perfectly between the soft part of my foot and pinky toe. Apparently you own a whole fleet of porcupine convertibles that only come out after nightfall.

So if all the cars are lined up at bedtime, how do the sharpest ones end up outside the bathroom door?

So if all the cars are lined up at bedtime, how do the sharpest ones end up outside the bathroom door?

Your tantrums are for the birds

I want to sit and watch the same four videos of trucks all day in my pajamas sitting in poop too but I don’t. Why? Because I do it like every other respectable man in four, 40 minute sessions throughout the day in the bathroom. Well, I guess I don’t blame you for that tantrum – I’d be pretty upset too.

You vomit more than a person going through an exorcism

A previous roommate was notorious for vomiting but he was a DJ who had dad issues and commonly drank a bottle of vodka in one session. What’s your excuse?

You make a scene when you see a breast – honestly it’s embarrassing

Oh thank god its just you to clean up after. For a second I was worried it was our roommate vomiting again

Oh thank god its just you to clean up after. For a second I was worried it was our roommate vomiting again

Yes, we realize this phase has passed for you, but the roommates still have PTSD from when you were a baby.

You keep demanding to sleep in the beds of other roommates

If one of my guy friends told me seven years ago that someday I’d have a roommate who would climb into bed with me every night I would’ve been thrilled. (Let’s assume a beautiful woman for this reflection). Getting jolted out of bed by the cacophonous sound of a wounded zebra only to rush into your room and notice you are perfectly fine is not exactly what I’d call thrilling. You then demand to be taken to the roommate’s bed where you proceed to methodically push me off the side, and kick me at random times in the junk until morning.

You’re going to make me eat that now aren’t you?

You slobber on your food, then demand I eat it

If I really I wanted to eat a piece of bread dipped in human saliva I well… Ok, I’d never want that under any circumstance.

You act like a lunatic in public

I know what restaurant patrons are thinking when they see us out: that individual is making a racket and throwing enough food on the ground to feed a small village. I feel sorry for the wait staff. Those folks should be ashamed of themselves that they take him out and bother everyone.

What they don’t realize is that it’s much easier paying someone a $5 tip on a $2 bowl of Mac n’ Cheese than to scrape hardened cheese off our carpet, couch and cat for the next three weeks.

You’re addicted to truck videos

It may not happen today or tomorrow but at some point Blippi Liam Neeson will find you and he will kill you.

It may not happen today. It may not happen tomorrow. But at some point Blippi, Liam Neeson will find you, and he will kill you. (The character not the guy – everyone calm down – the guy is an amazing actor let’s face it)

I guess it’s not really the trucks that are the issue. It’s that son of a bitch Blippi.

You never want to go into the bath, but then once in you don’t want to get out

We’re all adults here. Well ok, you’re not. We know that you need a bath (see comment above about unpleasant smelling posthumous bovine). We also know that if you don’t get out of the bath, you’ll turn into an old wooden shoe. (ok we made that up). Please stop with the mind games – we’re spending money exponentially on beer as a result.

You’re an exhibitionist

I’d have to go back and read the original Craig’s List ad we posted for your room two years ago, but I’m certain it mentioned we typically wear pants in the house. Perhaps a clothing-optional exhibitionist colony might be more your thing, considering you love running around naked?

You take forever to go to sleep

First you want a book. Then you tell us you need to go the bathroom and sit on the potty when in reality you are just messing with us. Then another book. And another. Then you need to be rocked. Then you need to be placed in your bed while holding a lovie with your face at an angle six degrees northwest and left pinky toe seven centimeters out of the blanket. And it’s got to be a Tuesday. From there you need one hand on your upper back, another on your hand, a foot on your lower back, and a third hand on your face. It’s like playing a game of Jenga Twister and you can only win if you’re a nimble-fingered octopus. It’s not exhausting at all.

Who are you guys really? You are super humans

Who are you guys really? You are super humans

You’re a carrier of more minor illnesses than white settlers on the Oregon Trail

Miraculously you seem to contract, then shed illnesses with ease only to then pass them directly to the rest of the roommates (probably a result of the slobber bread we’re forced to eat). We then suffer with these rare communicable diseases for weeks. I’m not sure what crew you’re running with at day care but they’re likely experimenting with a blitzkrieg of genetically modified strains of the black plague. Your immune system may be turning into an impenetrable force-field but the roommates are left to fend for themselves. If I come down with Cholera I’m heading straight for that dirt-ridden kid Tommie.

In conclusion, it actually isn’t us – it’s clearly you. But… (Sigh) the roommates sort of love having you around, despite it all actually. We wouldn’t want it any other way in fact. That and you signed an 18-year lease, so we’re sort of stuck…

I knew it...

I knew it…




4 thoughts on “A Letter to Our High Maintenance Roommate

  1. I’ve resorted back to wearing my baseball protective cup around the house. I don’t know what it is but if our 2 year room mates are anywhere near, chances are the boys are going to get hit, smashed, head butted, and/or kicked. I literally have had to ice them on numerous occasions.

    I’ve been thinking of inventing the Daddy cup.

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