Dear Most Selfish Roommate, Ever,
Thou bipolar-II-abusing, bulemic, anorexic, "depressed," chronically anxious, self-centered excuse-making roommate hast officially done it.
You've officially lost my friendship.
I can, and have, handled a lot of shit from you. A LOT. Like, who was there when you were moodswinging your ass through three hours of killing yourself in the gym every day down to 95 lbs? And who was there when you came back from EDA treatment all weak and friendless and let you move into my room, adopt all my friends, and haunt my every motion? Who actually answers the effin' text messages eight times a day asking where I am and why am I not with you and clingy-cling-cling? But this week I was sick-- basically confined to bedrest, coughing constantly, sinus and ear infections, laryngitis, fever, cold sweats, the whole nine yards. A very shitty spring break.
Not once did you ask how I was doing. Not once did you express concern, offer to take me to the Dr's office, or even offer to make me a cup of tea when you was making some for yourself (you did, in fact, refuse-- there "wasn't enough water in the kettle for two teacups." It's a wonder it boiled). You did: complain about my "obnoxious coughing," roll your eyes whenever I tried to answer your questions when I had laryngitis, complain loudly- in front of company- that our house was "a sty" but then refused to do anything to clean it yourself, and accused me of faking it/making more out of my illness than was necessary.
Yeah, cause the Urgent Care doctors just hand out the antibiotics to anyone who can fake a cough.
As I've said, you're a real sweetheart. You thinks you're the only one who's stressed or has a lot going on. You seem to think it's my responsibility to help you learn your lines for the play (cause, yeah, I don't have my own to learn, or a million other things going on for that show besides being her personal assistant). You also think it's my responsibility to costume you for the play, and want me to give you an entire day to go shopping for your stupid costume. Yeah, everyone else is responsible for their own, and everyone else is perfectly capable of pulling it out of their own closet, but you're special. Fucking diva.
I'm tired of being forgiving because you've got "issues." My mother, who did her RN residency in an eating-disorder treatment clinic, warned me not to stay too close once you'd relapsed. Her exact words were, "Lauren will suck the life out of you." It's rare that Mom hits the nail on the head so precisely, but she has gone and done it. You are sucking the life out of me, with your hostility, negative energy, passive-aggression, and those stupid notes.
O, the notes. The fucking hot-pink post-it notes everywhere. You've literally taken a permanent marker to every item-- whether it belongs to you or not-- in our kitchen. "DO NOT PUT IN DISHWASHER!!!!" "DO NOT USE-- LAUREN'S!!!!!" "NOT A PUBLIC USE DRAWER-- KEEP OUT!! THIS MEANS YOU!!!!" Who fucking does that? I haven't put "Keep out" on anything since Jr. High.
Also. If it's just bi-polar II and anxiety, what are the fucking anti-psychotics for in the bathroom cabinet? I'm not snooping; they happened to end up on my shelf. Actually, most of your stuff is encroaching on what was once personal space. And no, I'm not going to get rid of my books just because a: you want to put a bed in the dining room so your guests have somewhere to stay when they come to see you diva out Romeo and Juliet, and b: you think a couple hundred books is too much. Is it my fault you're practically illiterate and can't fathom the purpose of reading poetry, criticism, classic fiction or anything besides 1: plays with roles for you in them and 2: self-help books about "Woman's Inhumanity to Woman," or "My Body, My Temple, My Shrine?" Fuck it. My books are precious to me. I chucked heirlooms to make room for you and your stuffed animals, bitch; I'm not getting rid of a hard-earned library to make room for a bed in a dining room. I'm already getting rid of my desk.
This is no longer a happy situation for me. Unlike you, however, Daddy won't buy me a brand new car or pay my bills. That means I'm stuck living where I am (within walking distance of school and work) until I can afford my own. That'll be a while. So if you're as miserable as you keep complaining you are, and I seem to be the root and cause of All Misery Forever for you, why don't you pack your copious shit and MOVE.
Your very aggravated, not taking your bullshit anymore, reclaiming my life roommate.
x-posted to my personal journal.