This is a repost from an older blog.

The majority of roommates I’ve had in my life (not all, but the majority) have been crazy in some way. While it sucked at the time, some of the events make for entertaining stories, so I’ve decided to start a series. Perhaps one every week? Let’s start with this gem:

After having moved out of a house where two of the girls had turned into crazy tyrannical dictators, raining down misery onto the lives of me and the other two girls living there (one of my fellow oppressed housemates had literally cut a bitch before, and she was still cowed by the two dictators), I jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire by moving in with my crazy (yes, clinically) boyfriend.

We (he) decided to temporarily move into a Benetton-style flop house of sorts with a few other strangers. A nice Asian girl; an Indian guy who kept to himself; a Filipino dude who was always smiling; and a white girl who liked to party hard and stay up late yelling into her cell phone–we shared a wall with this girl, of course, except the wall was actually a door and thus we could hear every part of her late night drunk dials to her boyfriend. This lead to some loud arguments between her and my boyfriend pretty quickly. At the time I was working the 6:30 shift at the faculty club and any sleep I could grab was precious, so I also had to tell her to shut it on more than one occasion. There was definitely no love lost between us and our new neighbor.

This girl ended up having another great trait: she enjoyed taking massive shits, clogging up the toilet, and then disappearing for a couple of days and leaving the other housemates to clean up the mess. Although this was new to us, it had apparently happened a few times. Even the landlord knew about it. When we called for the plumber, he gave us her number, too, and in my anger I listed her in my phone as Dirty Fucking Slob.

After being acutely embarrassed by my ex confronting her about “learning to use a goddamned plunger you piece of garbage,” the bathroom surprises stopped. She was also quieter at night (she probably feared for her life). I even had a conversation with her and she turned out to be a nice person; I’m fairly sure both the abandoned ginormous poops and the loud late night calls were linked to a little problem called drugs.

We had settled into a pretty comfortable truce when she came running into my room one day.

“I lost my phone! Can I use yours to call it please? I’m sorry!”

Without thinking, I tossed it to her; she looked so distressed I didn’t give it a second thought. I continued reading as she dialed her phone, and then a friend’s phone, and then gave me a terse “Thanks” as she practically ran from the room. As I checked the top two entries, three horrible words stared back at me: Dirty Fucking Slob.

I felt horrible. Imagine dialing your number into a virtual stranger’s phone and seeing that pop up? I apologized, which she accepted without looking at me. I guess my rambling apology, something along the lines of “Sorry, but I was mad at you for clogging the toilet and leaving for days that one time, remember?” didn’t make the situation better. I felt bad, but after she left, I couldn’t help but laugh. I would say the moral of the story is don’t write bad things in your cell phone about people who might use it, but I think the larger moral is USE A PLUNGER.

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