Jonathon8’s Handy Guide to Housemates

So yeah. House sharing. Me.

You know me. Solitary creature. Dark stranger. Lone fucking wolf. Who is now holed up in a six-room apartment with the potential three-course dinner party that I instead have to call housemates, who don’t pay the fucking internet bill on time, who commandeer my clean socks if the laundry is left unguarded, and who call impromptu social events that start out as ‘a few friends over’, and turn into the belated housewarming/early Christmas/Nik’s almost-birthday/Grae’s girlfriend-dumping/bloody hell-night that’s going on right now.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I like a bloody night of hell as much as the next lone wolf – particularly the blood part. But fuck – my laptop is playing a fucking tango beat on the desk as I write this because Grae’s music of choice is rattling the floorboards and making sonic booms beyond the sanctity of my bedroom door. We’ve already had three lots of neighbours ring to complain, but some random guy answered the phone and told them he’d come down and apologize, then threw off his clothes and ran up and down the fire escape, screaming “Kiss my sorry ass!” – so the police should be next. And I came into my room just now to find a bleary-eyed chick raiding my personal mini bar fridge and calling out to her equally unsteady girlfriend that there was only tomato juice left, so how about Bloody Marys?

The unconscious aptness of beverage choice did not escape me, but the girl did – I could certainly use a drink, but she is clearly not the time. Grae meanwhile, after weeping into his beer over his lost love for an hour, has hooked up with a hot amazonian gymnast (who actually arrived with one of his college buddies) and is therefore creating traffic flow issues in the kitchen. Kane is standing on the couch and tearing it up for a roaring, mayhem-enthused audience with his Call of Duty skills. Nik is – fuck. Let me look. Wait here.

Okay – so Nik is nowhere to be fucking seen. He may be in the throng of dancers who have spilled out into the hall, or he may conceivably and literally be under the table.

Aw shit. What the hell. Generally prefer to be the uninvited guest myself at social gatherings, but even the undead need to change their living arrangements every now and then.

 

If you can’t eat ’em, join ’em, right?

 

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