Worst Roommate Ever: The Sequels

I wrote an article for xojane.com for their Worst Roommate Ever column. It was published. The gist was: I had a roommate who could see auras. She talked to the cat. In a past life, the cat was a warrior. She kicked my boyfriend out in the middle of the night, then after some back and forth and changed stories, she kicked me out. We’d lived together 6 weeks.

I sent a draft of it to J for him to review. This is the feedback I received:

J: I emailed you a rewrite of the story. Spiffed it up a bit. Your roommate was actually an alien bounty hunter and your boyfriend was a quadriplegic who you beat when he talked back to you. Sheba is no longer a cat, but the ghost of a great warrior who, spoiler alert, reveals your roommate to be an alien, possesses your boyfriend’s wheelchair and crashes into bounty hunter alien roommate, knocking her out the window where she crashes, loses her memory, and you convince a doctor to keep her medicated and isolated in a correctional facility for the criminally insane. You’re welcome.

C: That’s fine. Except I’m not sold on the bounty hunter thing. I think alien antique seeker? Snake oil saleswoman?

J: The sequel is about the “ghost chair” where Sheba goes riding around fighting aliens with unwitting quadriplegics.

C: Yes, that’s totally the sequel! Can you flesh it out more?

J: Since you’re a feminist, I was thinking the aliens could be trying to collect vagina lips as trophies. And the ghost chair is stuck in impound. So you, the protagonist, must bribe or manipulate the security guard but then you end up falling in love with him because he’s sensitive and respects your authoritah as a woman.

Most of the story can be lame conversations about how you feel about each other, instead of explosions. Then the relationship doesn’t work because you have goals and he lets you go, reluctantly. The story closes with you eating chocolate ice cream and saying something like “I’ve earned this,” or “Who would have known those alien bastards were sitting on decade’s worth of weight-reducing ice cream?!”

C: They were? Bastards!


How aliens get dates: Ice cream.

J: The third movie is about evil ice cream makers trying to silence everyone who knows about the alien ice cream so they can continue their evil plot of making ladies feel bad about themselves do they’d say yes to the dates with evil ice cream owners.

C: Making all of us fat!

J: …only, they forgot one thing: A wheelchair possessed by a warrior ghost. “Wheel you marry me?” “Oh yes, a thousand times yes! During the downhills and the uphills!”

C: Does ’til death do we part apply?

J: No.

C: Figures.

J: It’s a ghost chair.

C: I know. How’d it die?

J: That’s the prequel!

C: Oh man. Are we Star Wars-ing this?

J: Star Wars wasn’t a prequel. They skipped the first trilogy initially.


Ghost chair.

C: You’re still not saying how the chair died.

J: The chair didn’t die. It’s possessed by a ghost warrior. A ghost warrior who died while protecting the throne. Part of the story will explain the secret origins of Musical Chairs. It’s actually how we chose kings and is far bloodier than our childhoods would have us believe.

If Hollywood gets a hold of this story, they’ll ruin it, calling it “Ghosts vs. Aliens,” but it will break box office records, to my great angst, as crowds will remember someone screaming during the movie “The book was better!” And then I can write a piece “It Happened to Me.” (full circle)

C: Um…wow.

Nahbre froody voiberously.

C: I’m done with this argument. I’m sorry you’re frustrated with this. I was just trying to provide insight on what we talked about last night regarding industrial engineering. But I’m at work right now.

J: This is what it’s like:

‘j: I have to decide between red and blue. Would you care to provide any input?

c: Green!

j: I can’t choose green; that’s not an option. Would you care to provide different input?

c: I’m done arguing with you.’

C: Purple.

J: LOL/*cry*/LOL/*sob* (that was a hysterical fit between laughing and crying, fyi)

C: Now you know how I feel sometimes.

J: I do NOT know how you feel. I can’t even make sense of how you THINK sometimes  😦  Which, to be fair, may be hysterical.

C: Squirrel 42, gobblygook, fortuitous nibbly kitkat jargon. Hasn’t circle maybe question deMarque? Vernal zagquater lobbily! Meow.

J: Green! Gerbil! Purple! Gerbil gerbil cat! Don’t tell me what to do! Kitty! Jesus, some of your words weren’t even words. What would be the equivalent of ‘We’re gonna need a bigger boat’ for your brain?

C: Humdiggity doidlebug? Nahbre froody voiberously.

Beware of cat

I believe this speaks for itself.

But if not, the sign is to discourage people from talking to the cat, asking her questions about if she has a home, and whether or not she’d like to go home with them to all their kitties. I can speak for her:
“No, I would not like to go home with you, your kitties, or anywhere near your shopping cart.”
Not like anyone could grab her anyway because she hates being picked up. She only tolerates me picking her up, but I’d hate to see what she’d do to anyone else who tries to pick her up. I see what she does to me when we have to go to the vet.

Furry paper shredder

I just got back from the coffee shop where I was updating about missing the UAE. When I get into the apartment, I see that my Mondrian design for the quilt has met with my cat. The cat happens to LOVE shredding paper, and this particular design was no exception.

This is the offender, trying to look innocent:

Never tickle a sleeping cat who shreds paper.

This is the carnage I came home to:

The tattered remains of my quilt design.

At least it wasn’t the worst. The worst was when she shredded my W2s right around tax time. Lame.