December 8th: Housemates

I live in a share house with five other people. Above me sleeps a Nepalese PhD with as much of an online spending addiction as I do. Across from her lay a les-bisexual couple who divide their time between wedding planning and nutting out a diet plan that consists entirely of Sainsbury's Strawberry Pencils and popcorn. Below them sit two rooms, tiny with single beds shoved against sparse walls and perverting windows. A Spaniard who spends his day and degree trying to find the perfect sausage rests at the bottom of the stairs. Next to him is Batman in all but action, a recluse with odd hours and a job we don't entirely understand. And then there's me, beside the bog (toilet), kitchen, front door, stairs, lounge room, and I hear everything. My housemates are lovely, sweet people, really, but right now, in the mood I'm in, I'm gonna lock them in their rooms and play Cotton Eye Joe until they scream for mercy, and then crank it louder. Like sweetie, dearie, fuck-tongue, if you don't stop screaming indecipherable, one-sided conversations I'm going to hurl fuckin ANZAC biscuits at your head until the thought of oats makes your eyes water and skin crawl. If I have to hear one more steady stream from a friend into the toilet bowl I'm gonna shit on their stoops. Maybe I'm just in a bad mood and over reacting. Maybe violence, just this once, is the answer.

Will report.