I Hate Housemates
I got home today after going through the hell of the interview, sweating in my interview monkey suit, smoking cigerettes when I usually don't and wished so much I had a place of my own. No b.s. to put up with, no crap. Just me and the cats.
When you have housemates you have to put up with so many issues, especially if you manage the place. I hate having to practically beg someone to do something as simple and reasonable as wring out a fucking sponge and put it away.
Then there are the emotional issues. Let me tell you about one little fucktard who's soon to be history. He's a little Guatemalan/Honduran weirdo named . . . . Pepe.
Pepe's a real piece of work, a superstitious little new age goob with neanderthalian features who sincerly believes former President Clinton had a fetish for sucking the blood out of newborn babies. No, I am not making this up. Clinton = babybloodsucker. Imagine all the fun Ken Starr and his bunch could have had with that one. "Heritic! ! ! Burn the Baby-Sucking Heretic! ! !"
There's more, much much more but I think you get the point. Pepe feels that much of his virility comes from his extra-bushy and overabundant eyebrows. They look like live animals crawling across his forehead. . . I've talked with another housemate about someday tackling Pepe and shaving his eyebrows, just to see if he would shrivel up before our eyes as his virility drains from his body, making him shrivel up like a prune. Worth a try . . .
Today after I left the house I was stressing a major amount because I left Pepe's phone at the bottom of the stairs when I went out to run some errands after the interview. I'm using his phone to receive job interview offers because my phone's been shut off for non-pay, no surprise when you have no job, no benefits, no financial resources whatsoever and $16.00 in the bank.
Pepe loves to give someone a long, drawn out lecture as if he was your father lecturing a child. I fucking hate that. I can handle a pissed-off customer any day of the week at a call center, but when someone starts lecturing me like a child, it's all over folks. Time for me to get some spleen, and it's gonna be yours, bitch.
I cut things short and hopped on the bus, replaying Pepe's little lecture about putting his *fucking* phone back in his room after I'm done using it, over and over again until I was ready to kill Pepe just on principal alone. He would come up to me, tilting his chin back, hissing through his teeth as he drew in his breath like he was deciding whether he was going to give someone a spanking or just a stern lecture, and then I would lose it, scream, tear his shirt open and bite out his spleen. I could see it all so clearly. Pepe. Hissing. Spleen. Blood spurting. My crimson smile as I reveled in the joy of never hearing another of Pepe's stupid, stupid lectures ever, ever again. And then they would come to take me away, oh no ! ! !
I got off the bus and I'm walking up the hill when all of a sudden I see . . . Pepe ! Getting out of his car ! And my ankles are sore, my knee feels like it's about to give out . . . And I run. Up the steps, down the walk, up the steps to the porch and into the house to retrieve the phone, carry it upstairs, put it in his room and close the door, all so Pepe knows that, even though I'm using his phone with his permission, at least I have the courtesy to put it back in his room.
I close the door, run down the stairs, scaring the cats who are watching with much worry, and go into my room and partially close the door. Then Pepe comes in. Oblivious. I lie back in bed and smile, glad to be rid of Pepe and a possible lecture.
The rest of the evening goes by somewhat peacefully, with the exception of my spotty wi-fi connection. Finally I am able to get it back up again, but only by putting the laptop near the couch at an angle. I am in the midst of catching up on my daily netsurfing when Pepe comes through the door. It's dark in the living room as he walks through, the only illumination is the laptop screen, turned down.
Pepe begins to talk. He's had a bad day at work. I guess Pepe's got a job now driving a delivery van and it's not going to well for him. Apparently, pretty much from day one they've had problems with him and he's feeling the stress.
I feel sorry for Pepe, I really do. Poor guy comes up here from . . . wherever, his last shared housing situation the people there hated his friggin' guts (bloodsucking aliens, anyone?), so he moved in here.
So now Pepe unloads, and I become his shoulder to cry on, offering support, telling him it's going to be okay, telling him there will be other jobs and things will be better for him. I almost want to take his shaved, bald head in my hands and kiss it to make him feel better. Or maybe not.
He feels better now. I can tell because he changes the subject to aliens and one-world governments and blood-sucking Clintons.
Then he drops the bombshell. He no longer wants me to use his phone. Period. I cannot receive calls from potential employers, although I've got buttloads of resumes out there with his friggin' callback number on them. All over the fucking town. And he cuts me off the phone cold.
I try to reason with Pepe, bargain with him, tell him that unless I am allowed to use that phone to receive calls that I will be unable to get a job and could end up getting thrown out at the end of the month. He doesn't care. I explain to him that I only need it for the rest of the month. He doesn't care.
Now I don't care about Pepe, and I explode. Boy do I explode. I remind Pepe that as the manager at the shared house that I can terminate his tenancy. He doubts my authority. I tell him to get packing and searching for a new house because he's pretty much just kicked himself out. He doesn't care. Of course, this whole conversation is taking place in UPPER CAPS SO IT IS LIKE I AM YELLING, WHICH I AM.
Finally Pepe exits stage right, and as soon as one of the housemates comes home I explain the situation to him. As luck has it, he has a potential tenant! With check in hand! Ready tomorrow night! Goodbye Pepe!