Never move in with married people. Thats the rule they always tell you. And it’s a good rule, but with these people, it’s the least of the issues.

So I live with Mr. Rubberspine and Mrs. Whoreface McBitchenstein, and I have trouble determining which one drives me crazier.

Mr. Rubberspine, you’re a pretty decent person. You do dishes, you help clean, you have a job, pay your bills, and don’t drink all my liquor. You are pretty much everything I want in a roommate. Except you are a complete and total pussy. The next time I hear you ask Whoreface “is everything ok baby?” or say “I luv u” (intentionally spelled that way) in your pathetic little sad voice I’m gonna punch you. The next time I hear you say “I’m sowwie” I swear to God I will kill you with a phone book. You are an ADULT, fucking act like it!

And guess what? Our walls are paper thin. You’ve complained that you can hear my typing on my computer at night. So yes, I can hear you crying. I don’t give a fuck why you’re crying, but I’m betting it’s because your wife is a raving psychopath and you keep forgetting to buy that bottle of aspirin to bring you the sweet sweet release of death. You suicidal fucking vagina.

But hey, solve that issue and you’re fine. Let’s talk about your wife! Oh, by the way. No, we aren’t fucking. I wouldn’t fuck her with Hitlers dick.

Whoreface McBitchenstein.
I hope you die.
It’s not just that you have a couple bad habbits. It’s that you are some kind of twisted spider made entirely out of the bitchiest parts of hell. Every single thing you do is intertwined, and makes each consecutive thing even worse than before. It really makes it hard to pin down a place to start. Let’s begin with your work ethic!

You never clean. I can look around the house and pick things out that are specifically yours. The brush that I keep stepping on. The dishes piled up in front of the TV. The bloody pads and tampons that find their way into MY bathroom trash, no matter how many times I tell you that I can smell that shit. I would pull one out and rub it on the inside of your pillow, but I’m too terrified to touch anything that’s been inside you. Yes, I can smell your crotch when you haven’t showered in three days, and no matter how hard you try, your B.O. will not cover that shit.

One day, I made the mistake of nicely mentioning that to you that it might be time for her to take a shower. You responded by RUBBING YOUR ARMPIT ON ME. I had to shower and wash my clothes to get the smell out.

You use too much lotion. Not a problem in and of itself, but when I pick something up and it slides right out of my hand, I have to resist the urge to rip your hair out and use it as a rag. Not that that disgusting, greassy mane would be an improvement. It would just make me feel better. And so help me GOD if you throw lotion at me one more time and say “oops, I came!” I will light you on fire and throw you off the roof. Try me.

Stop bitching about everything. You don’t have a job, and you don’t have any right to bitch at your husband for spending his hard-earned money after he pays YOUR car bill and YOUR medical bill and YOUR school bill which you haven’t been going to. And if you bitch at ME about the way I spend MY money, I’ll choke you to death with a fist full of singles.

But the worst part is the Diesel Powered Sex Drill. This is her vibrator, and it’s so loud that I can hear it through three walls and a solid wood door. And when I come out to tell you to shut the fuck up so I can sleep, you get pissed at me and call me a perv. YOU’RE MASTURBATING IN THE LIVING ROOM. You have no fucking right to claim that room as private so you can masturbate. It’s where our guests sit. It’s where we fucking eat since the table has all your unoppened school shit strewn across it. That’s fucking DISGUSTING.

And all of this combined I could work past, I really would, if you just weren’t so damned unpleasant to be around. Everything pisses you off. EVERYTHING. You didn’t want to make dinner, so I made dinner, and you proceeded to bitch because it wasn’t made the way you like it. Then you stormed off, slammed doors, cried, and then told your husband to yell at me (he called you a lazy bitch instead, btw!).

You want to know why I spend all my time in my room? It’s so I don’t have to look at you. I don’t talk to you because if I do, I’m afraid I’ll start punching you and not stop until I pass out from pure fatigue. You’re lucky I didn’t come out swinging when you upended an ashtray in my chair and rubbed it in. I never thought I would hit a woman, but Jesus you make it so damn hard.

Please, go die and save me the trouble of digging a hole.

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