Ugh, finally home. Oh shit, those are definitely women's flip flops on the rug. Crap. This can only mean one thing: She's here.
Okay, really Chad? For the seventh night this week? She's here more than I am. Don't you get sick of her? I mean, maybe you're not sick of her, considering the strange noises similar to that of a panda fighting its way out of a trap that emanate from your room every night in conjunction with the wall-shaking thumping that made my lamp fall off my desk last week. My lamp, Chad, was in the middle of my fricking desk. What the hell are you doing in there? Curling?!
Don't start me on curls. I found a two-foot-long hair on my toothbrush this morning. Last time I checked, the longest hair on my body is the one on my leg that I like to call Jerry. Jerry is only three inches long. That hair was not Jerry. Not to mention, once I finished rendering the hair from that thing I use to clean my mouth twice a day, I realized that my shirt had rubbed up against the counter. No big deal, right? ""Hey Matt, let's keep the bathroom counter clean because it gets really wet and disgusting.""
Oh really? You know what's even more disgusting than water plus old toothpaste? Water plus tan powder that forms a paste on your shirt. Is that shit makeup? Or did she dig it out of the backyard?
And can someone please explain the mysterious panties hanging from the shower curtain rod? Did someone pee themselves? Perhaps you've started doing your delicates by hand, Chad? Superb choice, it protects the integrity of the fabric!
Oh, and that's not even the worst part of the bathroom. Every time I'm in there, it smells like a combination of a prostitute and the candle store that I stay 20 feet clear of at the mall. Is your girlfriend a Yankee candle, Chad? Is your girlfriend an effing Yankee candle?
I'll tell you what she is for sure: a spaghetti thief. That's right. My hard-earned spaghetti leftovers always go MIA about 15 minutes after I put them in the fridge. Maybe they just disappear on their own! If so, I'm sure they're in the same dimension as 36 of my Coors Lights, having an effing ball. Listen, we all know it's never Ladies' Night for me over here, ever. Oh, and you can tell your girlfriend that she can shove her giant water filter up her own saggy ass (don't think I haven't seen her run naked from the bathroom to your room late at night), ‘cause for God's sake, I'm triple-stacking my condiments!
Also, since when am I considered an empathetic mediator in your arguments about what to have for lunch?
Sure, I get to see her without a bra sometimes in the morning, but did I mention glitter? Oh. My. God. Glitter. I think I'm starting to hyperventilate. Do you know what it means for a man to walk into class and have a TA tell him about the beautiful, fluorescent piece of glitter on his nose in front of all the ladies he is trying to impress? What does glitter on another man mean, Chad? It can mean one of two things: that I already have a girlfriend who I jump regularly before class (holy crap this is so far from the truth), or that I wear glitter. Girls go for neither man, Chad. This may be why I am so lonely.
Oh shit, I think she heard me come in. Maybe if I just stand still...
""Hey Matt! What's up?""
Effing tell her, Matt. Think about your poor, defiled toothbrush!
""Uh... oh nothing, Cara. Just a long day.""
Goddammit, man. Now you're going to have to explain the flowered terry-cloth bathrobe hanging in the bathroom to your friends FOR THE ENTIRE REST OF THE YEAR.
If you have any tips or tricks for driving one's roommate's girlfriend out of the house and possibly out of existence, please send them to VP at evanpay@wisc.edu.
