They were pretty fun most of the time.
Only girl of 5 in a three room apartment. So many stories to tell. The guys liked me because I was laid-back, quiet, unassuming. And I put up with their grotty lifestyles. Just one of the guys, really.

I didn't even mind the mornings we'd find our pale bony emo housemate, after a night of binge drinking, passed out in the bathroom doorway with his pants around his ankles. It was great blackmail material.

Dishes often sat for weeks on end until there was nothing left to use and/or maggots appeared in the sink. No one wanted to claim washing up duty; each claiming they had barely contributed. I undertook the task several times, as did one of the guys. The others avoided it altogether. Now I know why I still live like a bachelor.

I had a nearly full-time job along with a full semester at uni, the rest had a few hours a week added to their paltry class schedules. On the night before Homecoming (a big excuse to bookend a bit of football watching with drinking from dawn til dawn here in the States) my housemates were drinking heavily and blaring music at inconceivable volumes. Being the only one who had to work at all the next day (early in the am, no less), I decided to be nice and tolerate it until about 3. But then the shouting started.

I leaped out of bed to find out what the matter was. There was Andy standing in the kitchen drunkenly screaming about how his life was falling apart because of some family problems that really weren't related to him at all. Then he broke the dishes. All of them. They were all sat on the table, dirty, waiting to be washed. He swept the lot of them onto the floor in one violent sweep of the arm, cutting himself pretty badly in the process. I don't remember the next part myself, but apparently calm quiet me flew right into his face and stood nose-to-nose with him, reaming him out at unholy volumes about how we all had our problems and he should loving deal with them and not fucking wake me up at 3 in the goddamned morning when I had to work, and especially not break every cunting dish we owned like a child having a tantrum. Or something like that. Whatever it was, it reduced him to a blubbering mass, and he held onto another housemate weeping "did you see her face?"

Cue several hours of us all trying to keep him from killing himself/driving back to his hometown in his exceedingly drunken state/doing anything else remotely stupid until he finally passed out.

At least the experience caused him to sort his fucking life out.

The other dishwasher later remarked, as we picked up broken glass: "at least we don't have to wash dishes now."

Apologies for length, and for the bits of broken glass you'll be stepping on for the next 3 months.
( coccyx approves this message, Sat 7 Apr 2007, 4:46, Reply)