AFTERMATH

It’s been a little over 2 weeks since I moved out. My freedom, autonomy and blissful silence is the equivalent to the 42 virgins that await suicide bombers. Serenity now.

The air smells better. Tap water tastes crisper. My refrigerator is stocked with products that you can actually make meals with. My girlfriend doesn’t get the heebie jeebies when she visits. My apartment is turning into a calculated adult oasis of class and style. I don’t have anxiety spikes on the way home. Serenity now.

The only other form of communication that I received from him since moving was the following email:

Jason,

When you get this email, please let me know if you are certain you sent in the Census form.  Someone just showed up at my door.  Also, I don’t know your exact age.

Cheers,

[name redacted]

I never sent the form, and I don’t intend to respond. Ever. Serenity now.

In retrospect, was it such a terrible experience? No. Is the guy a weirdo that creeped me out most of the time that I lived there? Fucking A. If anything, they’re ridiculous stories, and have been a hit at parties. At the end of the day, that’s what this experience is - a bunch of whacked out stories that serve as a cautionary tale and to entertain my friends and family. I can tell you that I will never have a roommate ever again. Until marriage. I’m sure that will warrant another blog…

Serenity.

4 Nights Left

And I will be out of this crazy fucking apartment. I cannot wait to kiss goodbye to this putz and his ridiculous idiosyncrasies. 

No more CNBC at full blast, industrial size jars of capers and olives, boxes of alli laying around, terrible furniture, shoes that have extra large soles, doors slamming every 5 minutes, windows open during blizzards, seeing porn downloading on his computer, jerking off in the kitchen area, water randomly boiling, thermometer EVERYWHERE, exercising at 10pm, wearing short shorts around the apartment, conversations about nothing, red night lights, solar paneling on the wall, sound proofing foam all over the place, ugly girl with no personality and terrible moaning sounds, random prostitute, packets of sugar substitute all over the counters when I go into the kitchen every morning, hearing him yell at customer service agents about how much stock he owns in their companies, hearing him awkwardly try to set up date from match.com, watching him wear suits to first dates, telling me there will be no second date, pretending to be interested in anything i do, forgetting what my girlfriends name is, wearing robes around the apartment, no more diet pepsi.

::gasp::

Vegas Baby! VEGAS!

First, let me apologize for being MIA the last few weeks. Lots of stuff going on with work.

A couple days my roommate told me that he would be for a few days this week. When I asked him where he’s going he said Vegas. At first I thought he may had had some friends somewhere, and meeting up for a boys weekend. However, then he told me he was going for a telecom conference.

Cut to Sunday night. I come home and there is massive amounts of food all over the kitchen. The guy went to Costco and bought half the store. Apparently, he is packing all this food with him, because he counts calories to the single bite, and he feels it necessary to take separate luggage containing such Vegas staples such as protein bars, beats, olives, beef jerky, egg beaters, a bottle of Bacardi 151, alli, soy beans, fat free chicken sausage and of course Crystal Light.

Tonight, after getting home around 8, his luggage and clothes are laid out all over the living room. He’s been packing for 2 hours [and still packing] for a 3 day trip. One bag for clothes, one bag for food/vitamins/toxic cocktails

Last time I went to Vegas I wore the same jeans for 3 days straight and brought a couple extra shirts.

I have a sneaking suspicion this whole trip is an excuse to go to the bunny ranch.

And feed them.

This Should Have Happened Sooner

I’ve decided to get my own place. Since my roommate changed the terms of the lease [30 days instead of 60 days notice], it’ll be easier to dump this putz. So, I have set the firm date of May 1.

Until then, the ridiculousness continues. Just see below.

OMG ALERT

I came home this afternoon [3pm] and my roommate had a prostitute in my apartment, on the couch. Serious. I seriously want to vomit.

Subject: ‘movie night Fri’

From an email I received today from my roommate

“Hey,

Just want to let you know that [name redacted] and I were planning on watching a movie tonight.  I am going to a musical tomorrow night, however.”

Sounds like another night of blue balls for him. And why are you admitting to me that you’re going to a musical?

So apparently my roommate had a date. I’m sitting on my couch, getting ready to leave, and all of sudden he comes into the living room dressed in a suit. A suit. It’s Sunday around 6pm, and the fucking guy is wearing a suit.

I ask him what’s going on. He said he had a date with some surgeon at some trendy hotel lounge.

This is your fundamental problem, buddy. You somehow convinced a surgeon to go on a date with you [way out of your league], you’re taking her to an expensive hotel lounge you can’t afford [you’ve been unemployed for over 6 months] and you’re wearing a suit on a first date on an early Sunday evening [that’s creepy and weird].

He just got home [2 hours later] and went to his room [probably to squeeze one out]. I have a sneaking suspicion that they had one drink, she decided to bail, and he went to the grocery store next door, to stand next to the Red Box and ask people why they’re using the machine instead of ordering on demand [that warrants a separate post].

I’ve had a pretty productive day for having little over 6 hours of sleep for a weekend. Gym, food shopping, errands, etc. My fucking roommate has sat in front of his computer the whole damn day. Literally just sitting there, clicking away. What the hell can you do for that long? How much eHarmony and porn can one view in 8 hours? It’s 5:30 and I assume he has at least another 7-8 hours left. Pathetic.

It’s 8:15pm

There’s a fucking Italian in my kitchen

Super Dissapointment

I was really expecting some crazy awkwardness to go down Super Bowl Sunday. My roommate is clearly weird, but I at least I thought he had some social skills [he can hold his own in a conversation, usually about hedge funds, but that’s neither here nor there], until Sunday.

My first guest arrived at 4:30 CST - an hour before kick-off. My roommate left to go the gym 30 minutes prior.

Once everyone was settled with booze and food, people wanted to know where the hell he was. I was getting worried [purely for selfish reasons and to populate my twitter feed with awesomeness]. I forgot about the whole thing and enjoyed the atmosphere.

Cut to 5 minutes left in the game. Roommate walks in, awkward smile and all. He apparently was at the gym for a good 4 hours. My sneaking suspicion is that at the pure thought of having more than 3 people in the apartment at one time would be complete overload to him. Add on the fact that everyone would be talking about football and the pop-culture [commercials], two genres he avoids like the plague, the situation would be too much for him to handle.

He quietly pulls up a stool, sips diet soda from a coffee mug and watches the screen quietly - a tad uncomfortable. He apparently watched the whole game at the gym.

I imagine he was the only person there.

A very anti-climactic Sunday.