I Hate My Roommate - Part IV

As I sit at my computer, creating outlandish profiles on gay dating sites for my roommate Phil, I reflect on the events that led up to this depraved act of juvenile vengeance.

The Man Holds the Remote
Every day, I come home to find Phil laying on the couch watching TV. There's usually a 3 foot radius around him littered with crumbs as he stares intently at the scantily clad women on the screen. I don't even try to watch TV in my own home anymore. When I do, Phil usually comes home and hangs around me, watching, hovering, waiting. He seems focused on me in the hopes that I will soon make the mistake of getting up for a drink, snack, or bathroom break. When I do, he pounces. I try to move as quickly as I can, waiting until I think he's not looking. But no matter how fast I am, I always come back to him lying on my spot on the couch, remote in hand, and the TV switched to MuchMusic in the hopes of seeing more half naked women gyrating around on the screen. I take a deep breath and bite my tongue...

The Pepsi Incident
Although I don't drink much soda pop myself, I usually keep some on hand for guests. When some friends cracked open one of Phil's 2-litre bottles of Pepsi from the fridge, I assumed he wouldn't mind. After all, he stays here rent free, doesn't pay a dime, uses all my stuff, and even eats some of my food. I guess I was wrong. The very next day, Phil replaced the 2-litre bottle with multiple smaller bottles of Pepsi, each one already opened and sipped from. He also took all his snack food out from the pantry and started keeping elsewhere (presumably in his bedroom). Perhaps I should make a point of putting my name on all the stuff of mine that he uses. Unfortunately, that would take far too long, since I'd be putting my name on absolutely everything. Instead, I take another deep breath and bite my tongue...

It's Peanut Butter Jelly Time!!!


One good thing that Phil has done lately is reawaken memories of Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches. He always seemed to be eating at least one a day since he moved in... until lately. I noticed he stopped making PB&J over the last few days, and it actually made me want to make one for myself. I started to salivate in anticipation, as it had been years since I had one. As I toasted the bread, I cracked open my peanut butter jar to find it filled with piles of bread crumbs and globs of strawberry jam. I sighed, taking another deep breath. As I cleaned up the peanut butter jar mess, I was excited to see my toast was ready. I excitedly spread the peanut butter on one piece, and I quickly opened up my fridge and pulled out my jar of strawberry jam. As I set the jar on the counter, realization hits me. The jar is empty. I pulled it out of my fridge, and it's empty. Somebody put an empty jar in my fridge. Somebody ate all my strawberry jam and put the empty jar back in the fridge. I was seeing red, and it definitely wasn't strawberry jam. People have died for lesser crimes. You don't mess with a man's PB&J.

I pondered many forms of revenge. Eyedrops in his orange juice would give him nasty digestive problems, but after seeing how he uses the bathroom, I don't think he'd notice if he had more explosive diarrhea. I could do something to his bed, but that would just come back to bite me, since it's actually *my* guest bed. Putting Nair in his shampoo would be funny if he actually had a full head of hair. Unfortunately, putting his cell phone number in numerous gay personal ads seemed to be the only logical conclusion.

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