Housemates are annoying aren’t they, I can hear mine moaning now because she has to clean the mess she made in the kitchen, it’s making me want to punch her in the face. Since I moved out of home, aged 16 (cool or odd depending on which way you look at it) I have lived with a total of 23 different people which basically makes me an authority all things housematey. So, here, without naming names (you know who you are) are some of the worst:
No, not my actual Mother although she can be a pain the arse to live with, someone else’s. When I first moved out of home I lived in digs I am not sure why it is called digs because I certainly didn’t dig it at all. It was basically like living with a really shit version of your own family. The “Mum” of the house would leave me post-it notes telling me off for coming in too late, the most irritating thing being that, unlike my own mother, I couldn’t tell that bitch to fuck off. Instead I got drunk and threw up in her flower beds, that taught her.
The Drug Dealer
Drug dealers are a pain in the arse to live with. First of all they offer you drugs, which, at the age of 16, you are likely to take. Secondly they are always fucked which is quite frankly tedious at 9am on a Tuesday morning. I got kicked out of the house I shared with a drug dealer because he told his Mum (she owned it) I was stealing tea spoons and bed linen. Obviously this sounding not at all like the kind of thing a coked up twat would make up she handed me my notice. Understandable. Not.
At 17 I moved into a flat by myself but there was a problem, three bedrooms and only one of me. In come two girls let’s call them friend and thieving bitch. Returning home one day me and friend were told we’d been burgled, what a fucker. A fucker that is until we found the stolen items in the thieving bitches bedroom. 24 hours later and we were moved out. To top it off TB (let’s abbrieviate to save time) spent the following weeks threatening to kill us, nothing like the idea of death to make you not care about leaving your favourite mug behind in your dashed departure.
So, your relationships a bit crappy, your boyfriend cheated on you and quite honestly you think he’s a bit of a twat. You’re right. So, what do you do? A. Get the hell out of that relationship and pray to god you soon meet Simon Cowell OR B. Move in with him because, well, I don’t really know why. It’s B of course, this is totally logical, why wouldn’t you want to share your bedroom with someone you don’t even want to be in the same country as. In 4 words: Just don’t do it.
The One That Doesn’t Clean, Themselves Or The Kitchen
You know that weird smell, yeah? That’s you. It’s not the bin even though you’ve never taken it out, it’s not the dirty dishes that you haven’t done for 2 weeks, it’s you. The reason why you smell? Because you haven’t taken the bin out or done the dishes and their rank scent is so strong that it has somehow taken over you as a person. I of course still smell wonderful because I fumigate with Dior and shower six times a day. You should know part of my smelling wonderful is really me saying “wash”. And, just for the record, the flies in your bedroom aren’t “cute” you fucking weirdo.
I could go on, from the boys who set fire to the living room with an indoor fire works display, to the girl who would only eat food that didn’t belong to her, no you can’t have another biscuit bitch bugger off and go to Tesco. I have lived with some weird and occasionally wonderful people not mentioned above because quite frankly they're not nearly as interesting. It's important to note of course that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger and all that bullshit. One final point though, think of it as an open letter to the drug dealers mother: Remember Simon our pet rat? He didn’t die because he was old, he died because he ate a load of MDMA, twat.
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