Reasons You Do Not Want Me As A Roommate

This is my "work station"

I am a severely flawed individual. But, I'm aware of these flaws. It's why I prefer to live alone, with my dog, and rock out to all sorts of Justin Beiber and Mandy Moore. I am not meant to cohabit with others, because I don't play well. With that said....

A Quick List of Reasons You Wouldn't Want Me as a Roommate

1) I'm messy.
I live under the Oh, I'll pick that up later, I'm just leaving it here for now, mentality. The truth is, once that shoe is there, I can trip over it fifty times, and STILL not pick it up. You can trip over it, too, yell at me, and I'll wave you off saying "Yea, I'll get it," and then take a nap instead. Because, well, it's more interesting. My car looks like a hurricane swept through. During my basement dwelling days, the four year old I was staying with looked straight at me and asked, "Lynne, why does your car smell bad?" Aren't four year olds supposed to...not notice bad smells?

2) My books are more important than you.

I've met three of these authors.

Oh, you want to look at my book? Cool, but don't leave finger prints and DO NOT under ANY circumstances bend the binding. If there is a mark, you're buying me a new book, (I'm not kidding. My sister had to do this because I FLIPPED out on her after reading A Walk to Remember) and if it's a signed copy you've just ruined, you're giving me your soul. Even Baxter knows to steer clear of my books.
There are a few you can handle, most of those are second hand, but even still, I am very protective. For the safety of you, your soul, and your wallet, you may want to...just look. Don't touch.

                                                                         3) I refuse to do my own dishes.

For a time, I figured that living on my own would change this fact, but it hasn't. In college, my roommates and I made a rule that if a boy were coming over he had to do the dishes before hanging out with us. Well, I live alone now, in the middle of nowhere. There is no one to do the dishes, and for that matter, my sister isn't hovering over me saying, "Those are your dishes!" So...yea. I hate dishes. I'd rather chew off my left arm than wash them. I think my sponge may be moldy, too.

4) What's that? Yea, I'm not listening.
I'm pretty self involved. Usually I'm working something out about my writing, or reading, or playing on twitter. The only times I really want to interact with you is so I can later use it in a novel. If that's not possible, then you're useless to me. BUT it is your job to sit there and listen to me while I read entire chapters of my WIP out loud. However, don't offer feedback because you don't read, PLUS you don't write...so anything you say will be incorrect. I know best, okay, thanks. Continue along.
Not only that, but I like to be by myself. I've spent the last two-three months living alone without a TV, and I've LOVED it. Now I'll have to go back to a roommate....and share space...and...mornings...and...space.

5) Do not touch or move my stuff.

Both of us will trip. One of us will move these things.
And that person better be me, not you.

I don't care if the strawberries in the fridge are moldy. They are mine, do not touch them. I don't care if you've tripped over my shoe, it's mine, do not move it. The only exception to this rule is if you're doing my dishes, or walking my dog. You can pet my dog, he likes to be pet. My books/shoes/clothes/everything else does not like to be moved. I turn into the Hulk if you touch my stuff. I rip my shirt off and everything. That whole invasion of personal bubble thing. You can trip, but do not touch.

6) Food and laundry detergent.
Food is sacred to a Schmidt. At our best, we are truly primal beings, living off beef flavored Ramen Noodles for survival. Probably because as children we were rarely fed and at least two of us developed eating disorders, but none the less, we guard it. Readily.
So if we treat ourselves to ice cream, or ginger ale, or beer, we become a wild bear, and those goodies are our offspring. If you come between us, you will get maimed. But if yours is left in the wilderness of the refrigerator, I will help myself when you're not looking. But don't you dare do it to me. I'm also not so good at sharing, so don't expect me to offer anything, either.
Then laundry detergent. Granted, if you leave yours in a communal area, I'll probably steal yours.I mean, why waste mine when yours is right there? But if I catch you using mine without permission, I will go nuts and start screaming. (And never admit that yes, yesterday yours was completely full and now it's down to half. Maybe it spilled?)

It's terrifying, isn't it?

7) I will tweet about everything.
If we have a fight, if your boyfriend comes over and starts screaming at you, if you leave dog poop on my porch step, if you come into my room completely naked, the entire world will know. It's the digital age, my friend. If you don't want everyone to know, don't be dumb. You're more than welcome to tweet about me, because I will tweet about you. And maybe even blog about you.

8) The monster isn't UNDER the bed. It's IN the bed.
I value sleep more than food, or laundry detergent, or you leaving my stuff alone. A boy once straddled me during a nap and tried waking me up, only to find a fist to his special places. I was too tired to be apologetic. I trained my dog by snaps and hand signals so that for the first half hour I'm awake, I don't have to say anything. So if you see a zombie stepping out of bed, it's best to pretend I'm a T-Rex. Stand still and I won't see you.

9) Passive aggression
I don't like confrontation. Maybe it's from growing up in an abusive household. Maybe it's because I'm an Adult Child, or maybe it's just because at heart I'm chicken sh*t. If you do something like steal laundry detergent, or break my toothbrush, I will leave a note saying something like, "Whoever did this, please replace." Clearly, if it wasn't me, and it wasn't Baxter, it was you. I know this, you know I know. But rather than confronting you about it, I'll just add to the tension.

10) Mental disorders.
Depression runs rampant in my family. Sure, I'm stable now, but there will be times where I'll swim out to the deep end and manage to bring you down, too. Not only that, but I'm 99% sure I have an undiagnosed and untreated bout of Borderline Personality Disorder, which causes self destructive behaviors, negativity, selfishness. Sometimes, when I'm not trying to get myself hurt or arrested, it can be fun. Most of the time....it's not.

I read all of these things to my sister, who I was forced to share a room with during our formative years. Then when we moved to North Carolina a couple of times. She further confirmed that I am a horrible roommate, and should live alone. I'm pretty sure I've opened some wounds she's forgotten about :)

What do you think?

Villains and Fear

Last week's YaLitChat revolved around horror, and the chat went from scary, to super scary. We talked about invasion of space (that feeling you get when you think someone has broken in to your place), what really scares us (monsters under the bed), etc. But the things that scare me the most are the things that happen in my head. That whole, "What is he/she willing to do next?" Conveniently, this saga unfolded shortly after this topic:

This is a mile walk from my apartment
I love this. Love it.

I've had my share of horrible living environments. I lived in a place in North Carolina that got infested with bedbugs because of a creepy man in his 50s. Before that I lived with a girl whose dog pooped and peed on the floor so Baxter got a rash, and I got sick for two months.

Then I moved to Maine, and I thought it'd be smooth sailing. My 60-70-80 year old roommate played guitar, talked a bit much when I was writing, but I thought you know, it'd be okay.

Then he and his elderly mother decided to start terrorizing me (yelling, moving/touching my stuff, throwing my food away, locking me out of my room, turning off the heat in the middle of winter, etc), so Baxter and I began staying in my friend's basement. Then, when I returned to the house to get my stuff, he exposed himself to me....and I called the cops. (The arresting officer is a somewhat regular where I work. He's said he thinks he has PTSD from the ordeal. You and me both, kid. You and me both.)

After staying almost two months in my friend's basement, when I found my apartment, I was so blissfully happy. So happy, so excited for the future. The only reservation I had about this place was the driving distance, but soon I rocked out to all sorts of CDs, and on days where I had to be up by 5am, so I could leave by 6am, and make it to work by 7am, I didn't shower (those are overrated, anyway).

The stuff under my name is his response

The neighbors seemed cool for the first couple of weeks. There was one I didn't like because she is living with her boyfriend, and yet spent 2-3 nights all over another guy (classy, huh?). Only one of those nights she was drunk, and so I was judging her pretty much the entire time she was stealing his hat.

Anyways, we'd sit on the porch, and chat, and try out for ninja warrior. I breathed easy for the first time since November. One of my neighbors invited me over for dinner a couple of nights, another let Baxter out while I was at work.

But, as is my luck with living situations, the crazy set it much too quick.

First, it started with the crazy neighbor next door and the wifi (yes, this was the one with the boyfriend). Then it exploded this last week when I went down to the laundry room to find my Tide laundry detergent in the trash (I'm broke, I had half a bottle left. When you get one day a week to do laundry, this is not what you want to find). So I did what any other passive aggressive person would do. I wrote a note:

It was nice to come down to do laundry today and see that someone has stolen all of my Tide. I had about 1/2 a bottle left.
Whoever you are, please replace. I was hiding it for a reason, and that s#$t is expensive. 
Thanks,
Lynn(e)

A bit later, I went to check my laundry, and my note was tapped to my door, with chicken scratch that read:

Next time leave your f@#$ing soap in the house Don't accuse any of us of stealing your s%^t and speaking of s&*t the next time I step in s&*t your gonna hafto buy an extra jug of soap to clean your car. And (neighbor's girl's name) is no longer at your dog watching disposal cos of your being a b@#$h. 


First of all, it was hard for me to take this seriously due to all the cursing, the misuse of your/you're, cos rather than cuz, or even because. (I judge people who misuse words.) At the bottom he wrote other threats, and crossed them off (that purple blue streak.)

Let me explain this a bit more. The neighbor who wrote this, yea, he's been in prison for murdering someone. Clearly I'm not comfortable with having me or my car threatened, and so I called the landlord to let him know. Landlord said he'd talk to the guy, and I figured that'd be it.

Instead, after a long day at work, I came home to find this:

Yep, that's poop.

So, we're adults, right? We're not sixteen years old. The dude is 32 years old, I can hear him screaming at his girlfriend nightly, she's come over after several of their fights, once when he allegedly threw her engagement ring in the bushes. (By the way, she's only 22.) You can look up my twitter feed because the walls are paper thin and I live tweeted them.

So I let Baxter out the poop night, and we get back inside, and I lock the door because that villainous fear crept in, What is he going to do next? Followers on twitter told me to call the cops, and my manager at work said the same thing. Because it wasn't an emergency, so much as annoying, I figured I'd wait until morning.

But instead of him being crazier, it was the wifi neighbor, who created an account that same night specifically to attack me. She tweeted at me about 9 times, all of which I didn't respond to, but continued to complain about the dog poop, the psycho neighbors, etc. Well, around 11:30pm, I heard her yell something and storm over and start pounding on the door. I told her point blank (through the open window), I'm not opening the door, to go home, or I'd call the cops. She told me to call the cops, so I did.

I'd finally started making this place my own!

Well, cop hottie (who is married but let me out of the fine when he pulled me over) showed up about an hour later. He told me this is ridiculous, and I couldn't agree more, but I was somewhat more comfortable because if something happens to me, to Baxter, or to my stuff, there is now a record of this craziness.

I texted a picture of the poop to the landlord saying that he needed to speak with his tenants because this is unacceptable, and by the time I got home from work the following day, the poop was removed from my door step.

None of the neighbors have had contact with me since, though an animal control officer (who walked over from next door), came over yesterday to ask if Baxter was registered because we'd been here for longer than 10 days (yea, bro. We've been here two months. Where were you then?), which leads me to suspect one of them is still trying to make trouble.

I'm very frazzled about all of this. My mangers at work are suggesting a new living arrangement but, I love this place. Not the neighbors, but my apartment. My place to live alone, my punching bag in my bedroom with my air mattress, a mile walk to a river and beautiful views.

But, if we move, it would be closer to work, and I could potentially go home during lunch to let Baxter out. If I could find a cheap place, maybe I could actually start saving up some money.

But if we move, I wouldn't be able to hop the border and head to New Hampshire and avoid sales tax. I'd give up the river, the drive where I get to collect my thoughts (though granted, sometimes the drive sucks). We'd have to give this up:

I'm not sure I'm ready to do that, but maybe giving all of this up is better than you know, coming home to a dead dog, huh?