Walking Disaster

Dear Fuckface,

First things first: please put on pants! Secondly: if you go anywhere near my food while in your birthday suit, I reserve the right to castrate you.

You are not my boyfriend, you aren’t even anyone I’m seeing. You are the latest in a long string of poor decisions in my roommate’s life, and even worse, you’re her shitty boss. I admire her balls. I just don’t want to see yours.

And lastly, stop reorganizing my goddamn freezer! I don’t know if I’m more offended at the audacity to be in my kitchen at all, let alone in the buff, or the insinuation that anything in my apartment needs to be organized. A word of advice to any readers — don’t go near frozen foods without briefs on, otherwise you significantly increase your chances of a tongue-on-the-flagpole situation. Only instead of a pole, it’s my frozen fruit, and instead of a tongue, it’s something else that is also in danger of being blended if I see it again.

While I’m on the subject of borderline sexual harassment in my own house, we need to talk about you as a person. You suck.

I know you, and by extension my roommate, are getting shit from your boss for not making your sales quotas — I’m truly sorry about that. But I would like to put forth the theory that maybe your habit of staying in your apartment (or distressingly, mine) until almost 11 am each day and coming home at or before 4 pm is probably the reason you’re failing. Her biggest issue is now she can’t fire you for your poor performance because of the way she talked to you, so you probably get to be even lazier, making her look worse. You guys are already on thin ice after telling your boss about your relationship, then rubbing it in her face at a sales conference, then getting hammered at said sales conference, and now making every day a half day?? If you even decide to go in?? You officially don’t get to whine about it. You also don’t get to ask me to “comfort you” when my roommate is not around…because then I will really be forced to commit felonies. And look, I understand the desire to have a victim mentality, especially for someone who blends their smoothies one ingredient at a time, but not here…some of us actually pay for this apartment and need to work to do so. Take your bullshit indignation to the pants store, and get out.

You’re in my apartment enough to make my couch permanently smell of cheap cologne, so you can probably see how easy it is to start a day before lunch time, and without getting high first. And on that point, stop walking by me and ripping a bong while I’m trying to focus, or I will push you off a balcony. Is that why your cologne is so strong? Are you trying to mask what you spent the morning doing? Because, if so, you’re forgetting eye drops. We live in California, do you really think your clients don’t know what red eyes mean? No pollen count is that high…rookie.

Take some advice from someone who does hit their quotas — the first step is to put on clothes, aka change your morning outfit so that it consists of more than just gold under-eye patches and a dopey smile. The second step is to realize you have a problem. The third step is to get out of my goddamn house and stay out, forever. Maybe see some customers so you have a chance at meeting your commission that you’re seemingly not stressing over.

I would like to put in a mild disclaimer to anyone who thinks I’m some sort of hag who hates my roommate’s boyfriends. I totally do, but in fairness, she chooses awful guys who treat her like shit and walk all over her, and I have a policy of telling her how I feel once, and then giving her the dignity of her own choices. Plus, in the past, she’s felt too isolated to leave bad relationships because she’s felt like all of her friends were judging her, and I don’t want to leave any of my friends feeling like that. With that said, I can’t wait for the two of them to break up. I’m just sad I’ll have to deal with him for exactly 18 months first. Hopefully, the CVS down the street will have enough Febreeze for my couch to last.

So, to sum up — take off the under-eye patches and put on a shirt, deodorant, and for the love of god, some fucking pants before I start hacking off bits.

Signed,

Someone who’s gone prematurely blind…