We Need To Talk About Brittney

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I could fill a book with all the crazy roommate stories I have. I have just as many, if not more, great, fun memories of the good ones, but they’ve been few and far between. My newest roommate moved in with me in January. At first, she seemed great! Well, great might be a strong word, but she seemed like someone who would pay rent on time. And she is. She has some really good qualities for a roommate. For example, she almost always pays me at least a week in advance for rent. I don’t charge her for any utilities, and yet she still helps out with them from time to time. She pays the full internet bill because I’m giving her such a good deal on the rent. Anytime she goes grocery shopping, or to Walmart, or wherever, she will send me a message asking if I need anything. She likes Walter and Baby Kitty.

Now for the not-so-great, the weird, and the gross.

I recently discovered she doesn’t wash her hands after she uses the bathroom. The bathroom is located between her bedroom and mine and I heard the toilet flush, but no running water after. She used the bathroom again about 20 minutes later, and still no running water after the flush. In retrospect, it is beginning to make sense why our toilet paper goes so quickly, but the handsoap is depleted at the same rate as before she moved in. So, if you come to visit me, and I throw hand sanitizer in your direction, you’ll know why. She used to have a toothbrush. I don’t know what happened to it, but for at least 3 weeks, there was only my toothbrush in the bathroom. I began to consciously listen for teeth brushing noises, you know, in case she was transporting her toothbrush from bedroom to bathroom, but there were none. She has one now, but it’s not exactly something you run out of and wait 3 weeks to replace! There is also just a general odour about her. Not body odour. And it shouldn’t be since I’m 99% positive she took my half used deodorant. But there is an odour. Sort of a…cheesy, sweaty foot smell, like she didn’t wash out all her cracks and crevices. It’s a distinctive aroma. Stings the nostrils. But, how do you tell someone their hygiene sucks and to at least wash her fucking hands?!

The door. Ohmyfuckinggod, the goddamn fucking door. Out of everything, this is the most ridiculous thing she does (or doesn’t do) that drives me up the fucking wall! If you’ll recall, I had some screen door trouble this winter, and now to close it, it’s not hard, but you have to lift the door up a little bit for it to latch. When it isn’t latched, the door easily catches in the wind and bangs on the railing. I can’t even tell you how many times I have had to ask her to remember to close the door. In addition to it being right outside my bedroom window where I can hear when it hits the railing, it’s just not good for the door or the railing. Over the last month or more, she’s been pretty good about making sure she closes it behind her when she comes home. But, I have noticed that she will only ensure it’s closed if she knows I’m at home. If I’m not home, she leaves it. Which makes complete sense because everyone knows I control sound, and the answer to that age-old question, “If the wind blows a door, but Amy isn’t around to hear it, does it make a sound?” is, of course, no. When I left for work tonight, I made sure to send her a text telling her to make sure she closes the door when she gets home because it’s a windy evening. She’s lucky I’m so passive aggressive or she would be in tears every day. Because how hard is it to close a fucking door? The one day I was home when she didn’t close it and I gave her the benefit of the doubt, like she was just stopping at home for a moment, but no. She came in, and went to her room. When I told her she left the door open, she said her arms were full. Ok, that’s fair. We’ve all been there, right? You have a bunch of grocery bags, and you are carrying 5 in each hand, plus a pack of toilet paper under one arm, and you somehow manage to also pull the mail out of the mailbox, because heaven forbid we make more than one trip. While juggling everything, you put the keys into the lock with your teeth and finally get the door open. You run-walk into the kitchen and throw everything onto the table, your fingers throbbing from the half-inch indents littered throughout the inside of your hands. Now, dear readers, I am going to let you in on a little secret about what I do after this point. *looks around conspicuously and whispers,* I go back, and I CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR! Unconventional, I know. But trust me, it works.

Stay tuned this week for how she constantly tries to get an invite to go out with my friends and I.