Archive for the 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. Category

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #11

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 23, 2008 by Buck Frain

pennywise

#11. Other People’s Psychos

 

So, you’re a pretty good judge of character, huh? You’ve been around the share-house world long enough to know a few probing questions to ask of potentials, you’ve read books on body language and psychology and you know how to pick house-mates. Good work. Congratulations! You may well be great at telling what sort of people you want living in your house but how the fuck can you tell what sort of people they let into their lives? Ah, you didn’t think about that did you?

 

With every house-mate who’s not a complete nut-job-loner themselves, comes a horde of acquaintances, friends and relatives, some of whom may or may not be completely unhinged. And the best thing is that you’ll never know until you experience them first hand.

 

It’s 11:30pm I answer the door to a mournful, unsunned, waif.

 

Is Stephen in?

 

Stephen. Maybe I should have known. He wasn’t much of a ladies man but I didn’t think he was this depressed.

 

No, he’s…

 

I’ll just wait for him!

 

Stephen’s bedroom door slammed shut behind her. I was still standing at the door amazed at the nimble stealth that had propelled her under my arm and up the hallway. This definitely wasn’t a good sign. Welcome friends don’t scam their way in like that. No, this was bad. This was really, really bad. I’d let a complete stranger, a very sketchy-looking complete stranger into my housemate’s bedroom. Bad. Bad. Bad.

 

I shut the front door in case she was just the first of a legion of emo-zombies ravenous for the taste of non-suicidal brains. She’d only been in my house for seconds and already my will to live was ebbing away. I phoned Stephen and described his visitor.

 

You cunt, why did you let her in?

 

I fucking didn’t! She just dodged past me. Who the fuck does that?

 

Well, tell her to get out.

 

Fuck you, cunt, you get her to go, she’s your fucking girlfriend!

 

SHE’S NOT MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND! WHAT’S SHE FUCKING DOING? FUCK!!!

 

He hung up. The girl had locked herself in his room and wouldn’t answer me when I tried to speak to her. This was becoming a cuntfully unpleasant scenario. Stephen rang back and swore at me and told me he wasn’t coming home for a couple of days in the hope she’d just leave. I told him he was piss-weak and that her being in our house at all was unacceptable, let alone for a few days, that she had locked herself in his room, wasn’t coming out and wasn’t talking, and that if he didn’t get his stupid arse home and get rid of her I would call the police. I added that if they got her out and he wasn’t back it was my firm intent to have a shit in his bed.

 

The police indeed came, they had to break the bedroom door to get in. The silly bitch had taken a bunch of pills and was unconscious in a big pile of vomit on his bed. The vomit made me feel a bit better about the situation. The ambulance came and they took her off to hospital and, yes, she was fine, and yes it may be sad and I don’t mean to treat suicide lightly but that wasn’t what this was. She wasn’t trying to kill herself, it turns out she just does this shit! This was her fucking schtick! Her equivalent to a shitting chat-up line, if you will! When she likes someone she has a bit of a failed-suicide at their house to illicit sympathy and create emotional ties based on a shared crisis and the lay foundations for a chronically unhealthy relationship. Personally I think she should fucking top herself, everyone would be better off, she’d be happier and, really, it’s not like the planet’s short of people, is it?

 

That’s just one story, though, there are fucking psychos everywhere. If you’re not already, you should be terrified…of everyone…all the time – people are fucked! A former house-mate of mine had a friend who seemed fine, just like a normal bloke…except…he liked to shit in weird places. You’d get up after having had a party the night before and you’d find a massive human turd in the driveway…or on the balcony…OR IN THE FUCKING FRIDGE!!! We thought someone had a serious grudge against one of us but then it started happening to people we knew at their parties as well. There was a phantom shitter at large. It took years of freak-outs and an eventual triangulation between circles of friends to work out that it was Cam and he just likes to pinch one off at parties– like it was some kind of satanic house-warming gift. Hey, he wasn’t my fucking friend!

 

There was the six months after Dion moved out when we realised that he’d been dealing speed the whole time because his crazy, junkie, scum-bag clients kept coming ‘round in the middle of the night to score.

 

Then there was Trish, she was a kinda cool rock-chick but her hardcore-militant-feminist friends made Romper Stomper look like Sesame Street and made me put a massive cunting lock on my bedroom door for fear of being emasculated in my sleep.

romper_stomper 

So that’s it – 11 shit things that make share-house living suck! My hand is a lot better, I still live on my own, I will continue to do so and, Peter, you’re still a pathetic ballbag! People, don’t be fooled – Bill Hicks was right about human beings – We’re a virus with shoes! People are completely fucked and if you’ve any sense at all you won’t live with any of them, EVER!!!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #10

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 9, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

#10. Financial Usurpation & The Crafty Bail-Out.

 

Contrary to the postulations of that twat, Bean-bag-dick Peter, I do not share the opinion that the majority of people choose to share accommodation with strangers out of some altruistic sense of community and shared resources. I do not believe that people are driven by socialist virtue into the company of randoms. I tend to think rather that people live with strangers because they are too fucking poor to live on their own. Yes, that seems a good deal more reasonable to me – poverty not choice forces share-house living. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you saw the Sultan of Brunei looking for a relaxed, employed, dog-friendly male or female non-smoker to share sunny 3 bedroom house in St Kilda with unfeasibly wealthy monarch and yoga instructor? Never, and that’s not because he lives in Altona, it’s because he’s fucking rich and doesn’t have to bum around looking for vaguely trustworthy/tolerable fucksticks to share a rat-infested shit-hole with.

 

One of the fuckedest things about share-house living is that your poverty forces you, not only to live with strangers, but into financial interdependence with them. How people deal with money is a very personal thing. It’s not like personal hygiene, you can’t tell financial responsibility by looking at someone or by having a close chat with them and sniffing for cheese. No, you’ve got to wait until the fucker moves in to find out what they’re really like. I tend to think I’m pretty financially responsible. I’ve never had lots of money but I try to live within my means. I pay my bills on time. Boring perhaps, but I find I’m less stressed when I don’t have people chasing me for money and I take pleasure in the little things like being allowed to stay in my house and electricity. A lot of people don’t seem to see things the way I do. A lot of people don’t care for being financially responsible nor for financial commitments nor for the impact their lack of responsibility may have on their co-habitants. I’m no great fan of the rich but a lot of poor people are, in my experience, complete cunts.

 

Why?

 

Rent. Even before you move in you know it’s there. You know how much it is and when it’s due. You don’t own the house, therefore you have to pay rent – that’s the deal. Simple, you may think, but how many excuses are there?

 

Wow, is it this week?

It’s the same week every month and you never get it right. Can I offer you a calendar and some nice bright marker pens?

 

Oh, no, I’m broke.

I know, you’re also an alcoholic who’s addicted to poker machines. Your addictions are now impeding my recreation. Personally, I’d feel better about paying the rent on your room if it were empty and I knew you were living in a public toilet, blowing married businessmen for change.

 

But I’ve been living at my girlfriend’s place this month!

But your shit has been here, dog-fucker, pay the slutting rent!

 

Even worse than the fuck who can’t pay his rent is the criminal shit-sack who takes everyone’s cash to pay the rent but goes on a bender instead, a fact you find out two weeks later when the landlord sends you a letter telling you you’ll all be evicted if you don’t pay up immediately.

 

I’ll pay it back, jeez!

ARSE!!! I’ll stab you in your fucking sleep!!!

 

People are selfish and fucked! How many petty little arguments do you have to endure about bills?

 

Why should I pay more for the phone bill? I thought we were splitting it.

Well, you’ve racked up $300 from calling your ex-boyfriend in Japan. Fuck you!

 

Hey this is too much for electricity, I’m not paying this!

Eat shit! Maybe you’d like to get your stupid girlfriend to chip in seeing as she’s living here rent-free to get away from her parents, is unemployed hence here all the time, using all the hot water, eating my food, leaving her crap everywhere and she never cleans a fucking thing. How’d that be?

 

Of course, you may have it all worked out. You may have house-mates who pay their bills and rent. Congratulations, fucker! But what happens when circumstances change? Do they still remember their responsibilities? I came home from work one day to find a note from one of my house-mates the day before rent was due:

 

Hi guys, Dave and I broke up. I’m really screwed up so I’m going back to Sydney to get my shit together. I’ll miss you, Marnie xx

 

Fuck you, Marnie, where’s the shitting rent? Where’s the bill money? Where’s the 4 weeks notice? Why has your mobile phone been cut off? Nice work, bitch, just bail out. Just fuck right off and leave us carrying the shit! Fuck missing us, I HOPE YOU GET SCALPED IN A WORKPLACE ACCIDENT!!!

 

You’re completely trapped in a share-house. You’re bound in a loveless, sexless polygamous marriage ‘til death do you part with people you don’t know and have never loved. Even if you manage to extricate yourself from an ugly share-house situation, the utilities are probably in your name and gradually over the next 10 years your credit rating will be decimated by unreliable goat-felching bastards you never even met who aren’t paying their bills.

 

Some people are poor because they weren’t born with money and haven’t made it yet. Others are poor because they can’t count and are crap with money. But then there are those who are poor because they share houses with bastards who refuse to honour their commitments or plan or budget and instead just suck the life out of anyone who comes anywhere near them. I fucking hate these bastards. I want to make them pay. I want to kill them. I want to fuckin’ kill them! I WANT TO FUCK AND KILL THEM!!!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #9

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 4, 2008 by Buck Frain

appetitelarge 

#9. Homebrew, Hydroponics & An Appetite For Self-Destruction.

Welcome to the jungle, we got fun and games…  

 

You’re young. You’re poor. You’re forced into sharing squalid surrounds with strangers. But you’re alive and parent-free and filled with a burning need to fuck and recreationally self-medicate as much of the time as possible, and why the balls not? The world is going to hell and holds little to no meaning, and the possibility of finding a job that you don’t want to top yourself for doing for the rest of you life is miniscule. Your best bet is to have some laughs and destroy as many brain cells as you can in the hope that you’ll stop caring and render yourself able to become a useful member of society. 

Good news: For over 15,000 years people with sod all money or education have been successfully brewing their own beer and getting right off their chops. It’s way cheaper than buying beer and provides you with a feeling of accomplishment whilst freeing up more of your precious cash for hardcore pharmaceuticals.

 

Good news 2: It’s fuckin’ legal!

 

You don’t have to be living with economics students to know brewing your own beer makes good financial sense, shit knows I wasn’t. Our entire house was, for the first time, unified in the mission of brewing and we became a little monk-like for a couple of weeks – checking, obsessing, focusing all our energies on the brew. We bottled and started another brew going. We bottled that and started another. Our cellar grew week by week and we waited for the brews to mature.

 

This enterprise inspired diversification in our endeavours and we constructed a small hydro setup in the ample broom closet and started growing two plants. We were set to become completely self-sufficient in basic intoxicants and we were very excited. The plants grew rapidly aided by a small UV light and numerous very questionable chemicals.

 

Finally, we harvested half a pound of buds once we’d run out of room in our makeshift cellar for bottles. We dried the weed and then chilled down a couple of dozen beers. To try. We tried. Ooh! Success. The beer was a pale lager style beer modeled after Mexican beers like Corona. Except it was about 6.5% alcohol so along with its crisp, refreshing taste and easy drinking body, it had a kick like a mule. The pot stopped time and rendered speech impossible.

weed_pot 

Five months later we were still wasted. We were producing nearly four cartons of beer a week and had to put in a serious effort just to make sure we were drinking that much so as to keep the cellar from increasing. Also, having large quantites of free pot lying about meant that we were smoking bongs incessantly. Someone in the house always had a doobie going or so it seemed and no matter where you’d come from or where you were going someone in the house would offer you a hit. We had endless parties, we invited our friends for barbecues and told them just to bring meat. We were kings. Mad, mad, debauched maniacal kings. Intervention and/or rehab was inevitable.

 

So where’s the cunting problem, Buck, you fuckin’ ingrate? I hear you ask, and well you may.

 

My housemates and I were sitting in the lounge room one evening. We were suitably toasted and idly entertaining the possibility of roping in our chemist mate in to help us make some LSD, a move that might well usher in a golden age in our Kingdom of Lad. We all jumped at the sound of the front door being smashed open. It didn’t come off its hinges but the deadlock tore through the frame and the inner handle punched a hole through the gyprock. I turned to face the sound and saw a flash of dirty denim and ginger goatee before the end of his baseball bat sank into my solar plexus and I crashed to the floor with the fear that I’d never be able to breathe in again. A heavy boot stomped between my shoulder blades forcing my cheek into the roughly finished floorboards. The double barrels of a sawn-off shotgun quickly filled my field of vision. I could hear the distant pleading of my house-mates amongst gruff threats and the sounds of the house being torn apart. My eyes were full of tears and my diaphragm was spasming air in and out of my body in such a way that I felt like a fish drowning in air on the deck of a boat.

…you’re in the jungle, baby! You’re gonna die!!! 

 

I couldn’t get my head around the terrifying reality that I was about to die in a gang related drug den massacre. My mum really didn’t deserve this. The voices were increasingly impatient in their demands and my body refused to let me answer. I pointed desperately to the esky in the middle of the lounge room floor. Calloused fingers flung the lid off the esky and pulled out a garbage bag full of weed. Congratulatory cheers followed. The shotgun withdrew. Another neanderthal returned to the room having found our meager broom-closet greenhouse with the verdict: Nah, it’s bullshit, they’re just cunts! Laughter. Ah well, thanks cunts. Oh, and don’t remember us or we’ll come back and kill yas! More laughter. Exit the bogan horde in a roar of Harley Davidson belligerence.

 

It seemed that despite our relatively small social circle, our friends had regaled their friends with tales of our enterprises and the resultant parties. These tales had been passed on, embellished and degrees of separation had closed until a group of hairy, stinky fucking outlaw bikies had decided to shut down our non-profit crime empire. It also seemed that I’d pissed my pants. Fuck you, near death experiences!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #8

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 17, 2008 by Buck Frain

#8. Power, Politics & Paranoia

Someone much wiser and more educated than me once said Everything is political, they were bloody well right too! Even the most politically apathetic, socially recalcitrant house-mate will become a political animal once placed in the share-house arena, in fact they’ll probably be the absolute worst, grubbing around for every little piece of leverage they can get.

 

There are many different types of political animal to be found in share-houses. I’m sure you’ve met a great many of them. The annoying shit-stirrers, painful meeting-obsessed peace-makers, militant law-makers, to name but a few. Then there are the innumerable games they play and the territories they try to annex to mark out their power base in the house so they can feel at home. Ownership of the remote control, occupation of the couch, rights over the stereo, responsibility for putting out bins. Pigs, bitches and borrowers are political positions and indicative of the ever fluctuating power dynamic of the share-house.

 

Whether you like it or not you’ll play the game. It’s impossible to avoid unless you want to be the bitch. Guys play different to girls, singles play different to couples but everyone plays.

 

Power, or Hand is what they all want. It makes life easier. The great thing about having Hand is that you rarely have to use it. A look is enough. A raised eyebrow or a carefully understated turn of phrase has the other player tying themselves in knots to avoid a conflict they can’t win. But Hand is a fickle mistress. She has to be maintained and can be very easily lost. One night where you get so drunk you wake up in the hallway without pants can end your political reign in a house. Or not – just like in real politics, if you can spin the facts in your own favour you may walk away with more respect than you had to start with.

 

In an enlightened household where mutual respect is the going currency the need for this struggle for Hand is minimal and everyone can relax, unfortunately, such households are generally regarded as fictional. The share-house is not like a home, it’s more like a battlefield. It’s all about survival and your enemies are everywhere, smiling like dirty bastards and then stealthily sticking passive-aggressive notes to the fridge as soon as no-one’s looking.

 

I don’t like aggression, especially at home, it’s unnecessary and crude. Passive-aggression, though, really gives me the right royal cunt. There is nothing more fucked in the entire universe than the smug, cowardly shitfulness that passive-aggressive people ooze out onto the rest of humanity. Just be up-front and honest! I don’t mind people getting the massive screaming shits with me but I cunting well hate passive-aggression with a vengeance. If I was ever to murder someone it would probably be because of some smarmy passive-aggressive piece of skullfuckery. Unfortunately, whilst murdering people is relatively easy, getting away with it is not and the authorities seem to take a pretty dim view of it even when there’s compelling evidence that society is better off as a result.

 

So what’s to do? I could fight back, honest aggression style, I could fight back like a dog-felching-passive-aggressive wank-stain, but fighting leads to a win-lose situation that may not be stacked in my favour. What if I’m not tough enough to win on aggression? What if I’m not enough of a douche-bag to win the passive-aggressive-I-wish-I-was-Oscar-Wilde-cunty-shit-eater game? Guess I’d just have to take the loss, huh? You’d think that, wouldn’t you? You’d probably be able to go back through all those previous house-mate battles and count up all the victories where you had Hand, wouldn’t you? Yeah, that prick just had to fuckin’ wear it, ha ha! And maybe you’d be right. Maybe your adversary walked away with his tail between his legs and took the loss like an honourable man. Hmm…honour…there’s the rub. If honour were present we wouldn’t really have this problem in the first place. Never underestimate your opponent, and never, ever fuck with a coward!

 

Remember your toothbrush. Remember where it is. How vulnerable and alone it is when you’re not around. Remember all the dirty things in its immediate vicinity. Have you ever brushed your teeth and thought your toothbrush tasted funny but shuffled the thought away with a rationalisation like: It’s winter…it’s damp…the air doesn’t circulate in here. What lies have you told yourself so you didn’t have to acknowledge that your toothbrush may have visited the toilet? That your toothbrush may have been pissed on? That it may have been up the cat’s bum? Because it may have. It’s conceiveable – when did you last see the cat? But, no, how pissed off would someone have to be to do that? Maybe a lot…hmmm, maybe not so much – how widely hated is the cat? There are many areas where you are vulnerable to a terrorist attack by the people you live with. Yes, a terrorist attack. Terror is the only response available to the oppressed so think about it. If someone dunked their nob into your cottage cheese and stirred it around a bit, then put the cottage cheese back in the fridge – would you know? In a world without honour, how much Hand do you really have?

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #7

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 14, 2008 by Buck Frain

#7 Other People’s Genitals

 

I don’t have issues with nudity per se. I think streakers at sporting events are funny and I’m cool with the genitals of anyone I’m intimate with. However, other people are another matter altogether. I am OK with other people having genitals just so long as they’re not flapping around at eye level when I’m sitting in the kitchen trying to eat my breakfast.

 

What the weeping-nob-scab is wrong with people? So, you picked up my house-mate last night and brought her back to a house you’ve never been to before inhabited by people you’ve never met and in the morning you wander out through the kitchen in search of the loo…naked. Nice one! And then you look at me like I’m the one with the problem and ask:

 

What are you lookin’ at?

 

I don’t know, fuckhead, is it a bonsai penis? I was worried you were going to try to fuck my breakfast with it!

 

Seriously, what are you doing? Do you have super-complex underpants that take 3 hours and a Ph.D to put on? Use a fucking towel, arse-face!!! In an ideal world one might hope that girls would have more modesty, however, I haven’t really seen any evidence of that.

 

What are you doing here?

 

I live here. I’m eating my breakfast. The toilet’s that way…um…you’re dripping on the fucking floor.

 

One morning I walked out to see a naked guy sitting with his naked arse on one of our chairs at the kitchen table eating our fucking cereal. What the SHIT??? I don’t mind too much about the cereal but how can I use a kitchen chair that’s had some fucker’s sweaty nut-sack and unwashed ring resting on it? Do I disinfect it or just throw the fucking thing away?

 

Inhibitions – they’re great! We have them for a reason. We have them because we aren’t solitary animals, we live in societies and these have only maintained a semblance of order and civility because people covered their genitals up and stopped scent-marking everything in sight. I’m stoked that you’re comfortable with your hairy, hail-damaged body, but do me a favour: COVER IT UP!!! No, really, take this guest burkha! Not because I have issues with my own body, not because I won’t be able to control my primal urges but because I can’t eat and vomit at the same time and I can’t spend my whole life buying new dining furniture.

11 Shit Things That Make Share-Living Suck – #6

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 8, 2008 by Buck Frain

#6. Burning The Midnight Toast.

 

This particular share-house phenomenon took its name from a quite inoffensive event. After a suitably boozy night when several members of the house had returned late from their respective nights out, we arose to find two ice-cold pieces of blackened toast sticking out of the top of the toaster. Beside the toaster sat the butter and there was an unused butter knife on the counter over an open cutlery drawer. The evidence all pointed to someone being so heavily shit-pantsed that they’d decided to make toast but either forgot the cause part-way through, or weren’t up to completing the task and just went off to bed. As each member of the house surfaced, they were asked: 

Hey, who was burning the midnight toast last night?

 

It was loveably roguish behaviour and burning the midnight toast made its way into the household’s vernacular as a euphemism for any strange domestic rearrangements that may have taken place overnight, possibly under the influence of intoxicants.

 

Unfortunately, the term began to lose its lustre as it became used as an excuse for all sorts of unpleasant indiscretions. The following are all 100% genuine questions we had to, and did, ask house-mates over the course of several months:

 

Excuse me, do you know who…

 

     …left an uncooked cake in the oven?

 

     …owns the dildo on the couch?

 

     …kicked over the stereo?

 

     …ordered a prostitute?

 

     …screamed abuse at the neighbours last night?

 

     …left a used condom on the kitchen floor?

 

     …tried to poke vomit down the plug-hole in the bathtub?

 

     …had a piss in the fridge?

 

It’s bad, bad, bad, wrong, wrong, WRONG!!! Everyone has their moments and most people burn the midnight toast at some point but there are limits, people, FUCKING LIMITS!!! Get help, get counselling, go to rehab, leave me the stomped-ballbag alone because I don’t want to fucking well live with you filthy fucking animals ANY-CUNTING-MORE!!!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #5

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 6, 2008 by Buck Frain

#5. Bermuda Triangle Shelf, Permaculture Fridge.

 

This is where my food lives…temporarily. Permaculture Fridge is a living entity. It has a dense fertile undergrowth starting in the crisper – has anything ever gotten crisper by being put in this device? It seems like an invention designed to do the opposite, to reduce vegetable matter to a sweaty sludge in as little time as possible. This undergrowth lends the whole fridge a rainforesty dankness and creeps green tendrils up into the body of the fridge. The shelves bear the congealed dribbles of meals long gone. There are numerous sauces, cling-film-covered meals that weren’t any good when fresh and that have long since faded into the dusty recesses of the addled memories of their creators. These are a definite danger, they all potentially contain massive fungal blooms as well as bacterial specimens that would be more-rightly at home in a biological weapons laboratory.

 

These are objects of warning, talismans to protect any genuine food from evil spirits or opportunistic house-mates – borrowers – there are also distractions like a naked, dried piece of cheese or a dessicated half-onion. The Borrowers are a special breed of carrion-feeding share-house inhabitants. They never buy their own food, they borrow other people’s, their name aquired from their most popular excuse on the rare occasions they actually get caught pilfering house-mates’ food. Hey, I was just borrowing it, I didn’t think you’d mind.  Always delivered in a completely dead-pan manner with a vaguely aggrieved tone that aims to suggest that their captor is being unbelievably petty and materialistic. If necessary, they’ll follow up with a Relax, man, it’s just a piece of chicken, I’ll buy you another one, jeez! Yeah, sure they will, don’t be fooled it’ll never happen.

 

The great paradox of Permaculture Fridge is that for something that looks as though it’s been abandoned for centuries and is waiting to be discovered by archaeologists, it requires constant monitoring by the borrowers. This is necessary for their own survival, for although they are a hardy species, if they let their monitoring lapse they may well eat an expired talisman by mistake and poison themselves. If only the rest of us could be that lucky but the crafty fuckers are on their game. You can’t leave anything in there without it, or at least a part of it, disappearing – especially if it’s left on my shelf, Bermuda Triangle Shelf.

 

The complete disappearance is most common on Bermuda Tringle Shelf, one minute it’s there, next time you open the fridge voomp! it’s gone – never to be seen again unless you check the bin or the recycling. Beer is always one of the first things to be sucked away into the void. The partial disappearance is the more insidious as it not only reduces one’s food supply but also assumes a level of stupidity by the borrower responsible who doesn’t think I’ll notice my food disappearing bite-by-bite, or that I may attribute it to natural causes. Hmm…I suppose it is conceivable that there are a new breed of cold-resistant mice that live in Permaculture Fridge. I, however, being a cynical fucker, tend to think that it’s more likely some stinking fucking hippy stealing my food. I will fucking get you one day, Borrowers, ONE FUCKING DAY!!!

 

 

* For those who came in late: I no longer live in a share-house, this series is a retrospective. As I’ve mentioned previously,  I now live alone – like other people would put up with me, are you kidding? The reason I am sharing my loathing of the whole share-house situation is outlined in the first post of the series. I only mention this to save you the indignity of commenting on the post as if it refers to my current life which it doesn’t, or as if everything I mention were happening in one particularly cuntful house rather than being the biggest annoyances from a number of share-house experiences. Also, to Peter, if you’re still reading: get fucked!