I hate my roommate

The title about sums it up. I fucking hate my roommate, and I can’t wait to get the fuck out of his apartment.

At the moment, I’m living off the lease at his place. He wants–but does not need–a roommate to help with bills before the other guy whose name is on the lease moves in at the end of August. I need a place to live until the beginning of August, so I’m staying here.

Everything about here is temporary for me. I unpacked the bare essentials and nothing more. The walls in my room are bare and virtually all my stuff is packed into boxes. When I want something, I have to find the appropriately labeled box and rummage through it until it turns up.

My roommate, Nick, knows this. Virtually nothing I use–plates, furniture, even my bath towel–is mine. For some reason, he’s gotten extremely possessive of his new apartment, and quietly lords over me the fact that he controls shit around here. If I leave out something of mine, it’s immediately and silently put away where I have to search to find it.

This is compounded by the fact that Nick and I work very different schedules and actively avoid dealing with each other. He’s second shift, and (on the days that I work), my schedule is very random. When he’s home and awake, he barricades himself in his room. I do the same. When we have anything to say to each other, we scrawl messages on the marker board in the kitchen for the other to find.

An example:
Nick: “MARC SUCKS”
Me: “I poisoned your food, fuckhole.”

Yeah. Healthy living arrangements here.

As I was cooking myself some breakfast yesterday morning, I noticed an odd reflection on the marker board, as if someone had written something and then erased it. Looking at it from the right angle and squinting for a while, I was able to read it: “Marc you fucking douche you used all the the propane”. Apparently when I had used Nick’s grill this week, I hadn’t closed off the gas feed properly. He had written this little message for me to find, apparently thought better of it, and later erased it. I bought the bastard another $2.00 propane tank and left it for him to find on the kitchen counter. I was sorely tempted to chuck it at his head (“Here’s your goddamn propane, you asshole”), but there’s another complication to this situation.

You see, Nick is dating my cousin. Although I can’t stand Nick anymore, I love my cousin. She’s probably the closet thing I have to a little sister. It’s obvious they’re in love. From the cooing, giggling, whispering, and other sounds I’ve been unfortunate enough to overhear from Nick’s bedroom, they’re happy as newlyweds. When they’re together, they constantly have the glazed over look of lobotomy patients overdosing on a prozac/xanax cocktail. Beating the shit out of Nick, like I’d dearly love to do, would certainly remove Andrea from my life.

So for the next month, I’m going to be hiding in my room, attempting to avoid any contact with Nick and doing my best to make it seem that I don’t live here.