Dear Blue House,
It’s been two years, and I think it’s finally time for me to move on. Why, you ask? How about the fact that there are ten people living there and only two showers? Or what about the dead cockroaches that the pest control people killed and left behind? Or the wannabe opera singer who never stops practicing? I’ve heard stories about exotic pet babysitters, and that pimp who threw knives at the sorority girls. But now that I’ve experienced my own traumatic experience, it’s time for me to go.
With ten housemates, you’re bound to live with some weirdos. Room 6, otherwise known as Spike, listens to 80s Russian metal music non-stop, wears a pirate earring, and asked me to lace up his corset on Halloween. Spike and I have never gotten along. Maybe it’s because I like to think of myself as fairly normal and Spike sacrifices baby lambs in his room on full moons (most likely). Our mutual dislike began one afternoon, around seven months ago, when I opened the freezer to retrieve my dinner of frozen tater tots (this was when I was still single, okay?!), but instead of Trader Joe’s delicious package of Food for the Lonely, a dead, frozen white mouse fell out of the freezer and on to me. I hate dead animals. I physically shudder when I see roadkill. Alone in the kitchen with a dead mouse on the floor and no one around to get rid of it, I was the sole person responsible for putting it back in the freezer before it defrosted and we had to clean up melted mouse. After staring at the mouse in horror for five minutes, I threw it back in the freezer accompanied by the sticky note “Who has a dead mouse in the freezer and why??? That is disgusting!”. A new sticky note appeared a day later with the message, “It’s for Spike’s pet.” STRIKE ONE, SPIKE. STRIKE ONE.
Strike two occurred several months later. Just arriving home from work, I happily jogged up to the door that led to my bedroom when I spotted something curled up by the back gate. As I stepped closer, I realized with a shock that I was staring at a dead three-foot-long bull python, curled up in a ball. The only things I hate more than dead animals are snakes. They don’t have legs so HOW DO THEY MOVE. It’s not natural. I held back the gags and ran past it into the house. I’ve never seen any snakes in the area, so my mind immediately went to Spike’s pet. I knocked on the door of the only housemate that was Spike’s friend, and after inspecting the dead snake he confirmed that it was Spike’s. “Spike lost one of his bull pythons a couple weeks ago…it looks like it died of starvation”, he said, poking it with a stick. I gleaned three important pieces of information from that conversation. 1) Spike owns more than one bull python. 2) It went missing several weeks ago and no one bothered to tell me. 3) The snake died from starvation right outside the door to my room. I can only assume it was on its way to eat me but died before finishing the mission. STRIKE TWO, DAMMIT.
And now we come to the third and final strike. Fast-forward two months later to the week before I move out of this house. I just got back from a run and sat down on the steps outside my door, listening to music and checking my email while I cooled down before going back in the house. Spike and all his friends gathered outside on the patio, which was a couple steps down from the tiny staircase I sat on. Seeing that they were clearly about to congregate in numbers and socialize, I stood up to go back inside, not in the mood for witnessing a virgin sacrifice. As I stepped towards my door, I stepped on something. I looked down to see a three-and-a-half-foot-long bull python squirming under my foot. I screamed and shot up the stairs. Just to make it clear, this was under my foot:
“I am here to consume your soul”
I yanked out my earphones as Spike walked over to his snake and picked it up. His friends rushed over, cooing, “Is the snake okay?” as I stood at the top of the stairs experiencing full-body shakes. They stood in front of my door, caressing the snake, until I screamed, “SPIKE GET YOUR SNAKE BACK INSIDE SO I CAN GO TO MY ROOM.” I never yell at my housemates, even Spike, but I can assure you the entire neighborhood heard me. When he finally took the snake, I ran inside, threw my shoe across the room because I didn’t want it touching me anymore knowing it had touched a snake, and burst into tears thinking about how if I hadn’t stood up at that moment, the snake would’ve crawled on me (please visit the previous image to fully understand my uncontrollable sobs).
The next morning, I bumped into Spike. Our conversation went as follows:
Spike: I didn’t know you were that scared of snakes.
Me: Well, it took me by surprise.
Spike: At least he doesn’t have any broken bones. He’s just freaked out.
Me: Not as freaked out as me.
Spike: No, I think it’s pretty even.
Me: I’m not going to argue with you about who was freaked out more, me or the snake.
Spike: It was my fault, I put him in danger. I did it because I thought it was just going to startle you.
And then my eyes bugged out of my head because he just admitted to releasing his snake on me ON PURPOSE to try and scare me.
Strike three and you’re out. Except in this case I’m the one out because there was no way I was staying in that house another minute. Goodbye, Blue House. It’s been…well, it’s never been boring. I can give you that.