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Stomach Made Of Steel, Head Full Of Rocks

, , , , , | Friendly | November 29, 2021

I clear out the shared fridge regularly. We’ve had arguments over it before, but after I showed my flatmates what was dripping on their food — the green mold farm at the back of the fridge — they quickly changed their minds.

Everyone, that is, apart from [Housemate]. [Housemate] hates me for it; he hates being told what to do and he hates not getting his own way. I blame it on his spoilt lifestyle.

Housemate: “Why did you throw this out? It only went out of date yesterday!”

Me: “Don’t tell me you are going to eat that? There’s fur all over the cheese.”

Housemate: “I was going to cut it off!”

Me: “Firstly, this mold grows through the cheese; it doesn’t spread across the surface. You can’t cut it off. Secondly, you left it uncovered on top of everyone else’s food. I’ve told you. Everyone has told you. It’s not hard. Put your food in containers or it will get thrown out.”

Housemate: “You need to pay for the container, then.”

Me: “What? No. Your food, your responsibility.”

He tries to argue with me.

Me: “No, everyone here agrees with me. You act like an adult or you don’t use the fridge.”

Later, he tried to convince the housemates to get me out. I shared photos of some of [Housemate]’s food I’d thrown out over the past week or so. No one sided with him. Everyone told him to just grow up and think of others. [Housemate], in response, packed an overnight bag and disappeared late that day.

But not before unplugging the fridge.

No one noticed until much later the next day. We had to throw a lot away as it was the middle of summer. [Housemate] came back pretending to be innocent, but it was obviously him.

We agreed to kick him out, bagged his stuff, and told him to come to get it. [Housemate]’s biggest concern? He wanted “his milk” from the fridge. I got the (now) warm milk from the bin and put it with his things, and yes, he actually took it with him.

If Only There Was A Simple Solution For Scrubbing Away Bad Flatmates

, , , , | Friendly | November 27, 2021

I’m the author of this story. Since my original plan to first change the lock and then call the landlord didn’t work out, I decided to move out of the flat and look for new accommodation entirely. The air in the house was tense, and by this point, we barely talked to each other… which led to this incident a few days before I finally moved away for good.

I decided to cook some risotto for myself, but due to unfamiliarity with the recipe, some rice burned and formed a thick, hardy crust that couldn’t be simply washed off with some soap. I decided to save myself some effort and use the baking soda plus vinegar trick to soften it up for later, so I laid out a layer of baking soda, poured the vinegar, and set a two-hour timer as I waited for it to take effect.

At some point before the timer expired, I heard a knock on my bedroom door.

Me: “What is it?”

Flatmate: “Dude, what the f***?  You’ve been b****ing about me and [Other Flatmate] leaving dirty dishes and cooking stuff around, yet when you do it, it’s fine?”

Me: *Raising my eyebrow* “What are you talking about? I’m pretty sure I put the fork and spoons in the dishwasher; it’s not like I have to run it as soon as I finish a meal.”

He scoffed at me and looked at me smugly.

Flatmate: “And what about the pot? Won’t you wash it, huh? That doesn’t count because it’s too hard? Is your prissy little a** too heavy to do it today?”

I finally got where he was going with this, and I was not happy.

Me: “That’s because I burnt rice in the pot. That crust is like tank plating; do you expect me to scratch it away with my bare hands?”

Flatmate: “Oh, f*** you. No, you aren’t going to bulls*** me. You totally left it there dirty. I have got better things to do with my afternoon than cleaning up after you and being b****ed at.”

Me: “And I don’t want to waste my time cleaning a—”

Flatmate: “Ah-ha! Now you admit it!”

Me: *Grumbling* “If you’d let me finish, and if you did something besides strolling around the town and partying in this flat, you’d know about how to remove crusts from pots.”

Flatmate: “Yeah, with elbow grease, which you clearly didn’t use.”

Me: “No! I used vinegar and some bicarbonate to soften the d*** thing up.”

The timer goes off right about then.

Me: “There, the timer has expired. Now I’m going to show you.”

Flatmate: *Crossing his arms* “Hmpf.”

I went into the kitchen, opened the tap, and started scrubbing away, with entire pieces basically sliding off as the fizzling mush got washed away. [Flatmate] looked sheepish to be sure, but at that point, I was completely done with his and the other guy’s s*** and refused to eat at home for the remaining week I was there until I managed to move into the all-male dorm I had already planned to spend the rest of the academic year in before looking for a new flat entirely after the summer. My new flatmates are much more reasonable nowadays!

Related:
Flatmates Like This Make Me Sick

When Your Flatmate Leaves You Flat

, , , , , | Friendly | November 1, 2021

My flatmates and I are finishing University, and between us, we decide to sell off everything we won’t need to pay off some damages to our rented flat. We bought everything evenly and have all been responsible for the flat, so it’s nice and easy to work out.

Flatmate #1: “So, how do we do this?”

Flatmate #2: “I want to keep some bits for myself.”

Me: “I’m happy to sell everything. We need the money and we are going to have to sell everything we have to get it. Tell you what: we price everything up, and if we want to keep anything, we ‘pay’ that out of our own pocket.”

Flatmate #1: “Sounds fair.”

Flatmate #2: “Wait, can’t we just all take an item?”

Flatmate #1: “I’m not taking anything.”

Me: “Me, neither.”

Flatmate #2: “Fine, I guess.”

We price everything up and list the stuff we don’t want. [Flatmate #2] clearly tries to lowball all the stuff he wants to keep, but we don’t let him. Eventually, we are left with the stuff to get us by until we leave — kettle, fridge, TV, and mattresses — but we are still short on the cash.

Me: “Hey, has [Flatmate #2] paid for his things yet?”

Flatmate #1: “No, I thought he gave it to you.”

Me: “Typical. Hey, [Flatmate #2]! We need that cash from you!”

Flatmate #2: “What? Can’t we just sell something else?”

Me: “No, we need everything. What are you taking, anyway?”

He has put aside more than we realise, but it’s all tat — stuff from charity shops, stuff we found in skips being too drunk to know what we were doing, etc.

Flatmate #1: “Come on, mate. You’re leaving before us; we need the cash before you go.”

Flatmate #2: “I’ll get it, all right?!”

Weeks later, [Flatmate #2] still hadn’t got us the money. Then, out of the blue, I got a message from him. “Left what I owe on the side. Leaving now.”

“Great,” I thought. “At least he’s done the right thing.”

But then, I got home and the kettle and TV were missing, and the exact amount we had agreed to sell it for were left on the side.

I hope he enjoys his tatty garden chair and old sports gear he will never use.

This Is Equal Parts Bizarre And Sad As Heck

, , , , , | Legal | September 28, 2021

This was in the early 2000s when chat rooms and Yahoo/AOL were the de facto standard of communicating on the Internet and it was a lot harder to verify things people would tell you about themselves.

I had a girl who looked to be in her late teens move in with me after I advertised an empty room in my house. One grating thing about her that I discovered right away was that she talked incessantly and often told far-fetched stories about herself. Many of her stories often appeared to garner sympathy — i.e. being sexually assaulted in a subway, having to give the resulting child up for adoption, etc. As tempting as it was to give her back her rent money and tell her to move along, I grinned and bore it only because I lived with my elderly grandma from ages seventeen to nineteen and drove that poor woman up the wall with my teenage antics.

Over the following two months, I noticed that my roommate received an unusual amount of mail and packages. The packages were always small gifts like teddy bears, chocolates, inexpensive jewelry, and such. I figured they were from her family and found it endearing. The house phone also frequently rang with calls for her.

One late evening, I was coming from work and was shocked to find a mass of police cars, EMT workers, and an ambulance congregating around my house with my front door smashed in.

After letting someone know that I was a resident of the house and wanted to know what in the world was going on, I was let in. There was my roommate sitting on my couch with officers screaming at her: “You need to stop lying! You have the entire police force here looking for a dead woman, etc., etc., etc.! This is the third time I’ve had to deal with you this past year alone, and this town has been putting up with your s*** since you were ten!”

As it turned out, when the story unfolded, the girl had been talking on romance chat rooms and dating sites posing as a dying cancer patient, using fake photos of a seriously ill and emaciated cancer victim, and getting lonely and gullible guys to shower her with gifts and money.

One of the guys fell so much in love with her that he insisted on coming to visit her even though he lived several states away. Figuring that the jig would have been up with this particular mark, she then pretended to have a medical emergency on the phone with him and, according to him, began gasping and wheezing and became unresponsive.

What she didn’t count on was him dialing 911 in his state, giving the dispatch my address, and that dispatch quickly connecting to the dispatch in my area to alert them. After the police broke my door in, since no one was answering, they found the idiot hiding in a closet.

The girl turned out to be only seventeen years old; she’d left home and gotten a fast food job, and her parents simply never reported her missing.

I ended up giving her a three-day notice.

The Name’s The Thing

, , , , , | Learning | September 12, 2021

I was seven months into my first year in University and had to stay at the student dorm with around 500 other first-year students. My uncle kept pestering me whether I had met his friend’s daughter. I kept telling him that it was like looking for hay in a haystack. One day, his wife called when I was at the canteen with a friend and their roommate.

Friend: “Why did you sound annoyed at the end?”

Me: “My aunt and uncle are asking me the darndest thing.”

Friend: “What?”

Me: “They keep asking whether I have met their friend’s daughter. They don’t even know her name — the most important clue I need!”

Friend’s Roommate: “My dad, too! You might as well be looking for me and I’m looking for you.”

Me: “Might as well. What’s your dad’s name?”

Friend’s Roommate: “[Uncle’s Friend].”

Me: “That’s the same na—” *eyes going wide* “Wait! No!”

My friend’s roommate’s eyes went as wide as mine.

Friend’s Roommate: “You’re kidding?!”

Me: “Does he have a friend named [Uncle]?”

Friend’s Roommate: “Yes!”

Me: “With a son that looks like [Famous Chinese Actor]?”

Friend’s Roommate: “YES!”

Yep. She was my uncle’s friend’s daughter, and we had known each other for seven months at that time. We had just never mentioned my uncle’s or her dad’s names, and they kept forgetting our names.