Shocking, I know. I'm moving. Again. For the 40th time in the last 3 years. But the good news is, I will no longer be sharing a 10 foot by 12 foot space with one other person, nor will I be sharing a 4 bedroom apartment with three crazy men in their 40's while living with my boyfriend. No more. Seriously. Now, I will only have to clean up after one man, instead of three. I'll keep this short and put my new contact info directly below, but if you want a crazzzzy story that demonstrates my plight of the last five months, read post script.
address withheld after naivete shattered.
My phone number: not changed.
take that, stalkers!
P.S. So. My crazy-ass story. Imagine a nine-year old. A geeky, totally socially inept nine year old that doesn't realize that when you're not making eye contact, you don't want to have a conversation. That you don't particularly enjoy conversing with him because he's too busy talking about some crap. That's he's pulling out of his butt. Now make this nine-year old a forty-two year old man.
And three hundred pounds.
And whose eyes bug out eerily like Rodney Dangerfield's.
Getting the picture? Okay, let's continue.
You awake to the smell of burnt disgustingness. Thinking it is just another one of your roommate's poo-like curry concoctions, you fall back to your dreamland of fresh linen table cloths, and sugar withOUT mouseturds in it. Later, as you are jolted back to reality, you smell the same filth. You go into the kitchen to investigate, and, lo and behold, an enormous soup pot that has been boiling for the last three hours is full of scorched, hardened pasta, still on at full heat.
You sigh in disgust, and walk away.
But the saga isn't over yet.
After a week or so of the same pot with the same pasta sitting around in various locations in the kitchen, full of disgusting, soapy water, you wake up another morning to go to work. And, as usual, you need to pee. You go to use the bathroom and discover several handfuls of PASTA, scorched and bloated, in the toilet. You write a nasty note to someone telling them to clean out the toilet, as toilets are meant for poo and not for undigested (however mutilated) food.
You come home later that day to a note in the same location yours was, letting you know that, in fact, american sewage systems CAN handle food in them, because your roommate USED to be a LICENSED PIPEFITTER, and then gives a 2 page, in depth description of victorian plumbing systems and their influence in the american system.
You begin searching with even more fervor for a new apartment.