A Passive-Aggressive Letter to My Roommate

Dear Stupid Bitch,

You're almost twenty years old. And yet, you just graduated from high school two months ago.

I don't know the circumstances of why you are not in the usual age range of high school graduates, but I'm going to assume it is because you are a fucking moron. I think that is a safe assumption.

Please get this through your head: you are an idiot. I have met some stupid people in my day but you seem more like a high-functioning retard, but I don't want to insult retards so I will just say listening to you talk hurts my brain more than the ridiculous shit I just took after eating 20 hot wings at Hooters this afternoon hurt my ass. That's a lot of pain.

You live at college, with college students, but you don't go to college. I don't know whether you're actually "taking a year off" or you just "got laughed out of the admissions process at every college in America, southeast Asia, and probably even central Africa," but I am going to go with the latter, because "taking a year off" implies that anyone would ever disrespect their college enough to let you in, and that won't happen.

You washed the dishes, and put all the cups right-side-up in the drying rack, and I said, "Actually, if you turn them upside down they dry better," trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, trying not to insult you to your face, you replied with, "What? Why?" And I replied with, "Gravity." Because, you know, water rolls down. So if you turn the cups upside down, the water rolls out. And you gave me a blank stare, and shrugged, and walked out of the kitchen. I said to myself, maybe she just has never washed her own dishes. She did, after all, just move out of her parents' house.

You came into my room at seven in the morning asking if I would drive you downtown. And when I said no you said it was too late for you to take the bus and you were counting on me to drive you because I told you I could always give you a ride if you needed it. Which is true, but I meant "in emergency situations" and "not ever, ever, at seven in the morning." So I drove you. And told you not to do it again. But you did it two days later. By barging into my room at seven in the morning.

You told all our roommates that I was "acting like a whore" after I took off my shirt for five minutes after losing a game of strip beer pong. And no one else had their shirt on either. In fact, I was the most clothed of anyone involved in that game. That was the beginning of the end of my patience for you. I am sorry that you look like you are pregnant so you must wear baggy shirts at all times, but I am not sorry that at four in the morning in my own house I thought that I could do what I wanted. I am not sorry that the only reason you're mad is because your guy friends started ignoring you at that point, and still paid attention to me even after I put my shirt back on. I am sorry that you were stupid enough to say this in front of our other roommates who weren't there and so took your word over mine, because now I will make it my life's mission to make your life a real-world version of the fiery pits of hell.

But what really did it, what really convinced me that a dog would not only be able to hold a more intelligent conversation than you, but would also be infinitely better company, was when you said the phrase, "I don't condone poverty."

You said people make the choice to be poor. That anyone who really wanted a job, could get one. You cited a story you heard about a friend of a friend of a cousin of a chronic masturbator who once sat next to Johnny Depp on the subway who showed up to LA with five cents in their pocket and became a millionaire. And that story was your proof that people choose to be poor.

I, dear roommate, don't condone your continued thievery of oxygen that could be better used to serve society by fueling forest fires or cleaning out the dust under the keys on my laptop, but I'm not stupid enough to think that I can just choose to kill you.

I am currently one class away from fulfilling the requirements for getting a Bachelor's of Science in Economics at one of the best universities in the country, and you tried to outsmart me on economic theory.

You said that anyone could just get a job at McDonald's and then they wouldn't be poor anymore and anyone who was homeless was homeless because they were lazy. I pointed out the 12% unemployment rate in California as proof that those jobs just aren't there. I was going to discuss underemployment with you but I don't think you could even figure out what that compound word means and I didn't want to embarrass you.

I reminded you about natural disasters (Katrina), personal disasters (getting sick with no/little insurance, going through a nasty divorce), just shit luck (getting laid off when you're used to making 6 or 7 figures), poor government programs (shelters that get full, food kitchens that run out), and everything else I could think of, and you said, "Let's just agree to disagree."

You said people should just be more responsible, save up, and live within their means. You said all this to me the day you overdrafted your checking account. Two weeks after you moved out of your parents' house.

The bacteria living inside your intestines probably think you're dimwitted.

But, dear roommate, I will not launch an all-out assault on your psychological well-being just yet. Because I have faith that God is about to smack you upside the head. Because you are starting work in a high school in Watts in two weeks.

And I absolutely cannot wait for you to tell the teenagers you teach in fucking Watts that it's their fault that they're poor. If you're still alive that afternoon to tell me about how wrong you were, then I will try to forgive and forget.

Sincerely,
Messy Girl.