Meet the Housemates

Note that the following is a true story.

Note that names have been changed to protect identities.

Note that one should never move in with their friends second year University, especially when you have had sex with one, a crush on one, high tensions with one, and lied uncontrollably (albeit to protect) one from certain depression.

 

Meet Bambi.

She prances through the forest, gracefully avoiding hunters with her small 100 pound frame. Blonde hair, big blue eyes, and the biggest douche magnet you will ever meet in your life. 

 

First semester first year I unpack all of my things to my new room in McNeil residence at Queen's University. Enter Bambi and enter Bambi's entourage (parents). Until this second, I have not met her. But, like me, she knows no one (or next to no one) at Queen's and so we bonded pretty quickly. Well, I mean, we were living in the same 10 foot cubed box. Not like we had a choice.

 

Things were great first semester. Minimal stress, maximum party. All. the. time. We were great friends. Laughter and happiness filled our rooms and we were known to all. Bambi and I were practically attached at the hip. We studied together, partied together, ate meals together, napped together. You get the idea. We were close. 

 

Unfortunately, both of us seemed to forget that we were actually enrolled in classes... And that those classes required attention in the form of attendance and studying. And soberness. So with the great times bonding led to great sadness on report cards. Apparently the old highschool "I'll-just-write-some-things-down-on-a-piece-of-paper-and-call-it-an-assignment" attitude just wasn't going to cut it in the University world. 

 

Welcome to second semester. The land of jobs, stress, and insomnia. Oh yeah, I forgot. All that partying and paying for school and books left me with a nice little hole in my pocket and a nice little sucking sound from my bank account. So I took matters into my own hands and got a job. Actually 2 jobs. 

 

"Art-sci, art-sci, you'll be cooking my fries." Friendly inter-faculty mockery courtesy of Queen's Engineering. At Queen's, there are two types of people. (1) Engineers and (2) People who want to be engineers - also known colloquially as "Pretengineers"

 

Now, with the addition of two jobs equals the subtraction of time. And with the subtraction of time and the addition of studying, this equals stress. Lots of stress. Bambi took the stress thing to a new level. I was afraid. Very afraid that someone was going to get murdered in their sleep. And that that someone was going to be me. 

 

I was reading an interesting article in cosmo the other day which defined how people handle their stress. There are 3 different ways. (1) The people who just need to vent. This is me. And this is my way of venting. (2) The people who bottle and bottle and bottle until one day their brain explodes all over the room and the other person has to clean it up causing stress and (3) The people who take out their stress on other people. In the form of being a bitch and ripping apart every shred of their humanity.

 

Bambi is the third option. And unfortunately, I was her chosen victim. Everything I said, everything I did, everything I didn't say or didn't do, all got thrown down, ripped into tiny little pieces, spat on, shredded, burned, disrespected, and so on. This continued for about... 10 seconds before I had had enough of it and could no longer be demoralized at every step. 

 

I went to extremes. Actual extremes. I'm talking sleeping schedual reversal, hiding out in buildings I'm pretty sure she doesn't even know exist. I learned her entire schedule. Memorized her classes so that if I needed something from the room or to swap a textbook then I could sneak in while she was out. But it wasn't enough. Surely there was something more I could be doing to avoid her. No. No not really. That was the extent of my sneaky avoiding method. 

 

Somehow though, it still wasn't enough. At the same time though, how many hours, days, weeks can you really go without human contact. For me, not many. So I had to come back. I had to try and be friends with the stressed out goblin that was my roommate. Tensions rose. Explosions came very close but never happened. Then the summer came and both of us were so relieved to leave each other and be at least 2 hours away at all times for 4 months. We were both practically at the point of getting restraining orders against each other. 

 

Now, because apparently last year wasn't enough. Here we are again. Living together. 

 

 

Meet Paco.

One of the first memories I have of Paco is a joke, actually. Now, I don't know in what world telling a joke like this is appropriate upon meeting someone, but entertaining nonetheless and I was in a "making-new-friends-and-being-nice-to-everyone" mood so at the time it didn't really phase me as a *police siren* *little red flag going up* moment. Alright here it goes. 

 

Paco: "What sound does a baby make in a blender?"

Me: "Idk what?"

Paco: "Idk either. I was too busy masturbating."

 

Touche. Seems like that would be distracting. Now, when you're first memory of someone is a mental picture of them masturbating, it's not really someone that jumps out at you in a "we're going to be best friends" way. It's actually just disturbing. 

 

Second memory of Paco. To understand this, you must understand that I am referencing the show How I Met Your Mother (HIMYM for all you cool kids out there) and if need be, use the magic of google to figure out the reference. 

 

Paco (to group): "Does anyone here eat sandwiches?"

 

Ohhhhkay. So he eats sandwiches... I see. A masturbating sandwich eater is what we have here. Props for putting yourself out there like that. I mean, serious respect, man. But I don't talk to people like you. I'm not friends with people like you. You got into Queens. You must be smart. Be really? How we ever became friends is beyond me.

 

Oh yeah. Recalling, recalling, using. power. of. memory. so. drunk. so. little. memory. sex. Thaaaaaat's right. I had sex with you that one night. Oh man, I remember that now. You holed yourself up in your room for 3 days and did not come out to talk to anyone. I was fairly convinced you were peeing into a bottle for a while. Nobody heard from you or saw you for 3 days straight. I should have seriously taken advise from you when I was trying to avoid Bambi. 

 

So clearly you were just going to be a little pansy about it and hide from allll your problems. Ignore it and hope it goes away. Well guess what, I can't just sit here and watch you cut off all life from yourself and not come to dinner with us, party with us, talk to us. So yes, I knocked on your door and invited you to the cafeteria with the rest of us. Come back into the world. No sudden movements, everyone. What we have here is a failure to communicate. Your room was dark, your eyes were bloodshot, you had clearly just been sleeping and I had awoken the monster. NEVER WAKE UP A SLEEPING PACO. But for some reason or another, maybe as a "sorry I drunkenly had sex with you that one night", he came. And after that, we were friends.

 

Friends. Isn't that nice. To be friends with someone. To be friendly and joke about physics and math and other equally nerdy things. Yes, we were friends. 

 

Add alcohol. Subtract clothes. Divide legs. This is essentially what our relationship is. Scratch being awkward and all that nonsense. Let's just screw. And this would be fine, if I didn't have another housemate.

 

 

Meet Olive

Olive loves Paco. And when I say that Olive loves Paco, I don't mean in the little school girl crush way. I mean that Olive LOVES Paco. But to understand this, you of course need to understand a little bit of background about myself and Olive.

 

I hate cats. I hate the way they smell, look, feel, and the way that they always seem to hate me. Olive likes cats. If you could somehow bottle up the essence of a cat and bottle up the essence of Olive and swap them, I feel like the difference would be little to none. 

 

Olive is a cat. Metaphorically. She purrs like a cat (not joking) and has - I don't want to use the term whimsical because that word makes me happy and is improper to describe this but alright I guess - "whimsical" faces that she makes when someone calls her name. Like a cat who hears their name and perks their ears. Very similar reactions. 

 

Olive = cat. Basically all you need to know to know why I don't like her. I didn't always hate her, of course. In fact, we were great friends once. The best of friends, one would say. But, the more increasingly obsessed she became with Paco, the more I felt the need to lie to her about our drunk encounters, and the more angry she became with me. Leading her to stop trusting me (rightfully) and for me to stop trying to be her friend, take a step back from the fast lane that is friendship and actually realize how messed up and dysfunctional our house arrangement really is. 

 

Olive has never been in a relationship. Actually, once she went to a movie with a guy and he ate her face off. The end. So naturally, upon arriving at University and witnessing the sluts, whores, and bitches, all being praised by the male population for being so, Olive decides "Dude, I need to either (a) become a slut or (b) pretend that I have become a slut."

 

Since Olive prides herself on the ability to make any situation awkward beyond belief purposely, (funny at certain times, embarrassing at most times) she cannot become an actual slut. Sluts are not awkward. They are confident and... well... slutty. So she decides to pretend to be one. Conversation snipet:

 

Boy from floor: "Dude, I totally got my dick sucked last night."

Paco: *shocked/impressed face*

Olive: "I'll totally do it again if you want."

*Everyone laughs*

 

We all know that Olive isn't some whore. But I'll be damned if she doesn't pretend to have sex with every guy and girl in the entire residence... except Paco, that is. 

 

Now, I can handle a little bit of joking here and there about fake relationships. It's funny to a point to pretend you're going to get married to someone, or to pretend that you're f-buddies and be really open about it. It's comedic relief for the people who are actually f-buddies and they find it comforting to think "Wow, at least my relationship isn't as messed up as her made up one. Life could be worse." 

 

But then there's that line. Which was crossed when you started faking orgasms... in public. With the guys that you are pretending to have relationships with. Who don't actually join along, but just feel uncomfortable about the way you are moaning their name in front of that group of girls who they thought were cute. Don't worry boys - it's all cheerleader effect anyways.

 

So we have Olive, who pretends to be a slut for reputable gain. Who loves Paco, and who is my closest friend. So of course, who does Olive come to when she has a crush but little old me. Lovey lovey lovey, dovey, dovey, dovey, blah, blah, blah, gag. 

 

Me: "You should go for it."

 

Worst. Decision. Ever. But seriously, the girl has the self confidence of a grapefruit. She's not going to do shit. But god help me if she doesn't come in everyday and drone on about how they talked and how he came into her room and sat down and watched south park and watched whose line and listened to music and read cartoons online and talked about movies and he drew her a picture and they did work sitting next to eachother and they cuddled in the bed. HOLD UP. Say what? You cuddled in the bed with him? You whore. Ahfdasui;vbaolbveal;vubeiaulkbvikbsv chjbyhdfjkvbrbvh. 

 

In my mind, she used the promise of many blow jobs to coax him into the bed with her where yes, they cuddled and napped together. Fine. Whatever. See if I care.

 

I do care. I care a lot. Rejection and I are friends. I reject plenty of guys. In my relationship with rejection, I am on top. Always. This was like being raped. By rejection. Rejection rape. In the ass. 

 

Ha ha ha *evil laugh*. I know a way where I can still win. You see, I just continue to screw him when both of us are drunk. Yes, I know this is a bad idea and I know this is going to end in absolute horror. But I know no other way. You see, Olive and Paco never actually did anything. And yes, I know that she likes him and I'm being a rather awful friend right now, but isn't she also the awful friend for not seeing that I actually really liked this guy? So there. 

 

So there indeed. The screwing continues. The cuddling continues. Uhh. We seem to have a problem. Of course, Olive doesn't know that Paco and I are doing the deed while she isn't around, which trust me, is the way it should stay for the sake of all members involved. 

 

And a bright welcome to second semester which, as you'll recall I get jobs and avoid human contact as much as possible. So, naturally, with me gone and Olive still there, Paco decides its a good idea to start a "relationship" with Olive. And by relationship, I mean cuddlefest. I wish I was kidding when I said that they never took their pants off. They slept in the same bed for the entire semester and never. even. took. their. pants. off. Unbelievable. 

 

But of course, because all of us are alcoholics, the booze flowed freely in our bellies and the sex came naturally. So less than first semester, but still more that should have happened, considering he was in a "relationship"... with my best friend. 

 

Olive found out, obviously. Because she confronted me about the fact beginning of summer, the night after moving into our new house. Welcome to my nightmare.