Today is Glenomena check-up day, which means a man comes around to all the rooms in the building and checks that you haven't trashed yours Van Halen-style. Welllll, when the dude checked on funky manboy's room next door he asked that my flatmate David and I stand guard whilst he finish the check because he was quaking with fright. Why?
1. The stench.
2. The long, handmade, black curtain behind the door.
3. The bed with no duvet, sheets or pillow. Simple mattress. Deadly simple.
4. and most quake-worthy, Fun.Man. has a postcard menagerie of porn meticuously lining the entire room. His room is seriously an OCD shrine to all things smutty and stereotypically psychopathic.
I was okay when he lined up 6 pair of hamburger buns with one sheet of lettuce, and one squirt of ketchup for his 6 SIX! hamburgers. I was okay when he microvaved a bowl containing three cans of tuna and five baby potatoes. I almost threw up but I was was still okay. Now I am not okay, though, when I think of where all that caloric energy is going. Perhaps into the sheets that are NOT on his bed. I used to think he was maybe R rated crazy-- grunting, pounding on the wall, and then giggling and screaming profanities, but now these annoyances seem so much more. And "much more" = the X-rated results of what must be constant and rampant manboy onanism.
I want to tear my brain out and soak it in Clorox.
I also want to move.
2 comments:
Wow. That's creepy by a factor of infinity. It reminds me of one of the characters in Happiness.
Michael, I think you're great. Thanks for being creeped out with me. btw, wasn't Happiness the unhappiest of movies? A more appropriate title (if we follow the convention that titles should obey content) would be sadbarfingfeeling. I cried at the son/dad scene and felt sick the rest of the time.
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