Delish

This is a story about the roommate from hell. The real one.

Top three offenses:

1. Stumbles into my room, loudly and unannounced, open beer in hand, droplets flying every which way, to tell me she just killed a cockroach in the kitchen with her Chaco toe-thong sandals.

2. Uses my razor. Without asking. To tidy her nether bits. Then leaves behind an unsavory parting gift: a cornucopia of pubes wedged in the blade, jetting out at odd angles. They just lie there, mocking me. (I've been through 7 razors in two months.)

3. Three is too good to squeeze into a sentence or two. The long version is as follows:

My roomie is a loquacious alcoholic who barters sex for blunts and is currently in the throes of an all-emotional breakdown over her torrid love affair with a married man, who, for the purposes of this post, will be assigned the pseudonym "Libidinous Merv." Apparently, she's been involved in this mercurial lovefest for the past several months. And it seems that I have entered the story in the middle of Act Two: that tumultuous post-honeymoon period / pre-breakup showdown phase. It's been a non-stop whirlwind of sex, drugs, and alcohol, with a healthy dose of deceit tossed in for good measure. I feel like I'm living in my very own Jerry Springer. Let's take a peak...

Libidinous Merv -- a paradoxical blend of compassion ("He's so awesome. No, you don't even know. He's, like, the most sensitive guy ever!") and selfishness (He is, after all, having an affair) -- is one of the premier drug dealers in the area. He has three little girls, and just last month his "fuckin crazy Dominican" wife, Betina -- one part Sherlock Holmes, two parts Mike Tyson -- tracked down my roomie in some obscure watering hole and wailed on her 'til the bouncers interceded. Wife-y walked away with bloody knuckles and a retributive sense of territorial triumph, while mistress hobbled home to nurse a black eye and a split lip. Despite these unfortunate setbacks, however, my roomie remains unfazed. She will not be deterred. Her resilience is one for the books.

Sometimes, if I'm lucky, she brings the affair home with her. Those are the really special nights. So far, they've broken our living room futon twice, cracked a lava lamp, and smashed her full-length bedroom mirror into a thousand tiny shards. (Evidently, they like it rough.) Between the pigeon-like cooing moans (him), the guttural roars (her), and the inordinate amount of what I've taken to referring to as "fornication debris" in our common living areas, it's easy to mistake my apartment for a lion's den. TMI? Yea, well, that's what I said when she revealed, in a blaze of inebriated disclosure, that she called Merv's house four times and masturbated on the machine for his whole family to hear. Yea, go ahead, marinate in that one for a while. Let it simmer. (PS -- nothing screams "Psychotic!" quite like a needy adulteress hopped up on X.)

To add insult to injury, last month she performed an unsolicited Victoria's Secret fashion show for my viewing (dis)pleasure. Apparently, they had a weekend sex romp planned (in our living room), so she went on a $200 shopping spree for new lingerie. When she told me she wanted to get my input on her new buys, I thought she was just gonna take 'em out of the bag and hold 'em up like most people do when they're showing off new purchases. But no. >> I'm folding my laundry, minding my own business, never considering for a moment that my open door would prove to be a liability, when out of nowhere she comes strutting down the hallway straight toward me. I shrieked, "Holy shit!" and jumped back in fear. I had to quickly convert my scream of horror into one of beguiled amazement so as not to offend -- no small feat, even for a seasoned bullshitter like myself. You see, my roomie makes me look like Nicole Richie circa Spring 2006. On top of which, she's got bulging, cartoonish eyes that look like they're gonna pop out of their sockets at any moment. Seriously, one overzealous head jerk or unexpected twitch and those babies are dangling by a thread (or optic nerve, to be exact). >> In nothing but a see-through lace negligee, and with the Pussycat Dolls streaming in the background -- "Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?" -- she tried, in vain, to channel Gisele, straight up catwalk style. It was woefully painful.

"You like it?" she asked earnestly.

"You know it," I said between clenched teeth and a plastic smile.

She then proceeded to ask me if she looked better with or without a bra. I will spare you the details of that gruesome little exercise in cleavage exposure. Needless to say, I've been scarred.

(All facetiousness aside for a moment, her lack of self-consciousness is actually inspiring. I mean, she really puts it out there, gibbly bits and all, take it or leave it. I envy her her bodily confidence.)

So what, if anything, can be gleaned from this unabashed display of human inanity? What can we take away from this seemingly willful, and tragically persistent, lapse in good judgment? Well, for one, don't screw around with married men. You'll get your ass kicked. Second, you always take a risk using Craig's roommate finder.

Lesson learned.