Scary, scary people
In my first year of uni I lived with some utter weirdoes. First of all, two weeks into term they all decided to stop talking to me, which didn't bother me too much as they were a bunch of chavs who 'loved each other' from the moment they met and by the first day of freshers' week had decided to live together next year and the year after. And so they never spoke to anyone who wasn't living in the house with them the next year.

The gorilla-lookalike who lived above me had a testosterone overdose and would try to murder anyone who knocked the door. One night the same drunk French people who'd dared to spray shaving foam at the house walked past and he put his American football kit on, ready to go out and beat seven kinds of crap out of them.

Roughly halfway through the year he moved his delightful girlfriend in to live with him. This girl dressed like a neon bag lady, and looked either as if she was on acid or high on the magical green stuff. Before she moved in she used to stand outside my window at about 7.30 Every Single Morning bleating "Maaaaaaatt! Maaaaaaatt!" up at his window. Over Easter she stayed in the house, and used every pot and pan to cook with, and everyone's plates and bowls and knives and forks and spoons. Which were all piled on the kitchen table when we came back, and covered in the furry kind of mould.

Not to mention that they used to shag loudly and vocally all night. So much so that when my own boyfriend came over he could hear it from the opposite side of the block, and insisted that what they were doing wasn't natural.

The second guy never did any work for his degree - he either sat around in the kitchen looking sulky or played Grand Feft until 4am, and he broke about half of the things in the kitchen - the ice tray, the toaster, the kettle, three plates, a bowl, the ignition on the oven, two cheese graters and a chair. And the microwave always used to smell of burnt rubber after he'd used it. He never washed his dishes up and if nagged (by the two domestic goddess girls) would whine like a spoilt rich kid (which is what he was) and stamp off upstairs to watch his collection of 'people getting killed' films.

And finally, when I moved out I was the last one in the house, and as I was leaving I noticed they'd left a layer of grease on the ceiling thick enough to write your name in. And the sad part was that they had.
( Maladicta, Fri 26 Aug 2005, 17:59, Reply)