She asked...
...to move into our gaff and sleep on the lounge floor for a couple of days while she house-hunted for a place of her own. Three months later she was still there, eating our food, sleeping until noon, staying awake until 4am with every fucking light on (and not chipping in for the electricity bill). She also used two fulls roll of toilet paper a day, leading us to think she was not tearing off strips but grabbing the whole roll and sponging down her copious, piss-sodden saddlebags with the fricken thing. Whenever we broached the subject of her moving on, she became hysterical, sobbing about having to live in the street, yadda yadda. The last straw was me coming home from the pub, admittedly slightly early, to find her giving mouth-love to a somewhat unclean black guy IN MY BED (this helped explain some of the stranger stains which had been sporadically appearing on my sheets). We gave her 48 hours to move on but not before Chris and I left her a farewell gift of our own DNA, neatly folded into her clean, pristine panties then slotted back into her suitcase. Never seen her again and never fucking want to.
(skittlez, Sat 7 Apr 2007, 6:20, Reply)