Getting out of bed has become a real pain in the ass. Getting out of bed to deal with my roommate has just exacerbated that miserable feeling. Even breakfast is a chore; inevitably, Sandra is inspecting the level of cereal boxes, gallons of milk, meticulously documenting the amount that’s been consumed like some sort of psycho.

Fumbling for my lantern after being startled awake from the sound of a carelessly slammed cabinet, as routine calls, I let out a stifled, exasperated sigh. CLANK, the sound of the cabinets and glassware inside reverberating, shaking the foundation, through the pathetic sliver that my room is. Whoever created the floor plan with this damned shared wall is a bastard lucky to never meet me!

Sandra is a terrible roommate. She often left the AC off, opting to open the windows, leaving me to sweat bullets in the tiny, limited confinement of personal space she’s subjected me to. Courteous, she is not, quickly angered at any sign of my presence. Loudly stomping from room to room, nearly screaming whilst talking in to the phone; either the woman is hard of hearing or she’s deliberately trying to disrupt my peace.

Each morning, just as miserable as the last, I have to wait for Sandra to go about finishing her daily routines, up until the moment she leaves the house for work. Any chance of crossing paths with her is always sure to lead to some catastrophic outcome; a mental breakdown on her part filled with panicked, intense ramblings.

Seriously, I empty out my bucket, keep my cot made, and make sure Sandra never has to feel uncomfortable by my presence. I do not do anything to cause her this stress. I do nothing for her to make me live this way.

If she just knew how horrible it was having to secretly live in her walls, maybe she’d have enough sympathy to actually give me a bowl of cereal. Having a roommate is the worst. I’m sure she knows that too.

Why not make the best of it?