26 is too old to have roommates. It’s too damn old.
When I moved to Austin, I didn’t know anyone so I used a roommate matching service which is a big mistake. Everything was honky-dory for awhile despite the few discrete hints here and there that one of my roommates was absolutely batshit.
“I’m allergic to dust,” he said to me one day.
“Isn’t everyone?” I thought to myself.
“Whenever I breathe in dust, I sneeze like crazy,” he continued. I’m no scientist, but I’m sure this is the most common affliction next to breathing itself.
Every night I walked into my apartment, all of the furniture was completely rearranged.
The first time this happened I asked, “So you like changing things up a bit, I guess?”
“I need to get every dust particle so it helps to move things around.”
Every single day.
Even this hint of batshittiness didn’t register on my batshit meter.
Maybe the alien, conspiracy, and alien conspiracy talk should have clued me in.
After watching some alien “documentary” on the History channel:
“I’ve been preaching about the Illuminati and aliens since the 90s and now everyone’s talking about it.”
As if he’ll be remembered in the annals of batshit history as a kind St. Paul to UFOlogy.
A little conspiracy talk doesn’t scare me, but once he started talking shit on tomatoes and the conspiracy within them, my batshit detector went off the rails. I was like, “Hey, man. Lay off the ketchup.”
I began to talk about his craziness to friends -– a true sign of a burgeoning hatred.
I started coming in at times I knew he wasn’t awake just to avoid a new conversation about how Thomas Jefferson is related to Barack Obama through reptile blood.
One morning I walked in. I closed the door and there was a note that said, “LOCK THE DOOR. EVERY TIME.” I thought maybe someone had tried to break in and this was just a reminder of the dangers of an unlocked door. No big deal. So I go to the freezer to pull out some frozen taquitos or something and take them to the microwave.
“DO YOU USE THIS MICROWAVE? WHY NOT CLEAN IT UP?!”
Alright, things are getting weird. Once finished, I threw my paper plate into the trash can.
“IS THE TRASH FULL? TAKE IT OUT ONCE IN AWHILE. MOTHERFUCK.”
I take my fork to the sink.
“I AM NOT YOUR FUCKING MOM. DO YOUR DISHES.”
Alright, these signs in all caps and curse words were a little concerning but I had laundry to do so I went to the washer and dryer with my dirty clothes.
“WIPE THE WASHER AND DRYER DOWN AFTER EVERY USE. FUCKING EVERY TIME.”
This is crazy, I thought. Absolutely crazy. Nothing he said was technically wrong. He was right (although I’m not sure about ‘wiping’ down a dryer) but it wasn’t like he gave anyone a chance to do any cleaning because he was ‘allergic to dust’ and cleaned every god damn day. Sometimes twice a day.
I decided to go back to the trash can for reasons inexplicable. I found discarded notes. One that said, I shit you not, “DO YOU WALK ON ME? TRY SWEEPING ME!”
This was a note that was supposed to be on the floor. Now I can only imagine what was going through his head when he started pumping out these too-aggressive-to-be-called-passive-aggressive notes but it was ridiculous.
The guy is totally crazy. Once I found my bathroom (which he doesn’t use by virtue of him having his own) totally spotless and all of my shit out of place and hard to find. I asked him if he did it.
“Yeah, I got cleaning supplies for Christmas so I decided to use them.”
He even dug through my trash to cut out a coupon I missed on the cardboard box that held my toothpaste.
I feel like I should be scared.
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Andrew Hilbert is a recently displaced Southern Californian living in Austin, TX via San Antonio, TX. He continues to share the adventures he encounters in his new habitat via his column Real Gone (to be published monthly on the second Tuesday of each month here on intraffik.com). He still wears his Dodgers hat and argues passionately against Spurs fans. He is one of three founders of art/poetry magazine Beggars & Cheeseburgers. One day he will own a llama or three.
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