Friday, August 12, 2005

Fuh-riday. Jessss!!!

Here I am looking a bit young for my age, as many of you so nicely pointed out on Monday. A while back I promised E-Lo a BAD ROOMMATE post and I never delivered. So to start your weekend off right I am offering up this horrid tale of my BAD EX-ROOMMATE, Emily. Well, I guess it actually started off with my BAD EX-ROOMMATE, Mustaffa, who was a sleazy, gold-chain-wearin', Newport-smokin' Moroccan dude. (Incidentally, Mustaffa's best friend was also named Mustaffa and they were completely interchangeable.) This was at a time in my life, just after I dropped out of college, when I was working for THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE ON EARTH and making about $10,000 a year. Yes, you read that correctly. So my housing options were limited to the point of being virtually nonexistent. I was living with Mustaffa and this other crazy bitch who was barely kept in check by the giant bowl full of pills she took every day because it was cheap and close to my job and it was a step up from the YWCA. Once in while Mustaffa would "clean my room." I would come home and he would be in my room and all my clothes would be put away and everything picked up and because I was 20 years old and had not yet come into my own in regards to the raining-down-of-the-death powers I would attain later, I would just kind of put up with it. So one night, predictably, Mustaffa decided to grab me and rub his sleazy, Newport-smellin' lips all over my innocent young face and I was packed up and gone within 24 hours. SO. I had to find a place to stay right quick because even though I had friends to put me up, I felt ashamed to be sleeping on peoples' couches. And that is how I ended up living with Emily. Emily seemed nice enough when I first met her……..and her bulldog and her Irish wolf hound and her iguana in their tiny, freezing cold apartment in the middle of winter. Well, compared to living with Mustaffa, her place seemed like a little piece of paradise so I took all my stuff over there and moved in. It took me less than a day to regret it. Emily was a wiry, rugby-playing lesbian who always seemed just shy of putting her fist through a wall. In fact, it was in contemplating her fist my first night there that I noticed that she only had half a pinky finger on her left hand. What’s up with that, I thought. Birth defect? Dog bite? Thresher accident? Well, I asked and no. None of the above. It turns out Emily had CUT OFF HER OWN PINKY WITH A MEAT CLEAVER. And then, for some reason, I really can't imagine why, she had GONE TO LIVE IN A MENTAL HOSPITAL FOR A WHILE. Hmm!! Oh, and had she mentioned to me that she was an alcoholic? Why no, she hadn't! How fascinating! Well, she wasn’t supposed to drink when she was on her Lithium, but you know how it is, hehehe…..


Eventually I got used to the idea of the meat cleaver and the mental hospital. I just had to accept it, I mean, where was I going to go? It was really more the walking-around-naked that kind of started to get to me. She would just stomp around from room to room, her shriveled little pancake breasts a-flapping, her Amazon jungle of pubic hair blowing in the breeze. But hey, she was there first. There wasn't much I could do except try to ignore it. Every time Emily climbed back on the wagon she had to start taking lots and lots of laxatives because when she wasn't drinking she couldn't take a shit to save her life. She could leave her bloody tampons lying around, no problemo, but take a shit? No way, Jose!! It was suppository city!! So that was fun to be aware of. And I didn't even complain when she broke EVERY ONE of my wine glasses. We were getting along famously! But then......I don't know........things changed between us. Our relationship became a bit strained, if you will. I was chilled by the fact that she put the bulldog down simply because she was tired of owning him. She didn't tell me until after it was done, but it was disturbing to me that not only had she killed the dog for no particular reason, but that she thought that was perfectly normal. Then I started finding mean notes written to me about how she was not my mother and I was driving her the trash. She would write them and then throw them away.........where I could see them sitting on top of one of her bloody tampons or a bottle of Southern Comfort or half a finger or whatever. I started to wonder if maybe she wanted to have ME put down too. Then we got a new roommate - yes, another person added into the mix because that was exactly what our little apartment needed - who was, I'm sorry, but she seriously was the size of a small car. You know, like an economy car. A little Toyota or something. I mean, I would look at her sometimes and just not even be able to believe my own eyes. So there was stomping, naked, constipated, pancake-breasted, half-a-pinky-havin' Emily, the Irish wolf hound (which happens to be the largest dog breed on earth if I'm not mistaken), an iguana in a cage the size of a walk-in closet, and this woman who could single-handedly cause a tsunami if she fell into the ocean. And me. And then a meteor crashed into the earth and killed everybody. Sorry, I just didn't know where to go from there. I spoke to Davy Rothbart over the phone last weekend and we discussed stock story endings when you are just totally stuck. The meteor one is his and I am totally stealing it. (He'll be too busy putting the new FOUND book together to notice.)

And that's the BAD ROOMMATE story! Have a good weekend, peeps!