Affitto, bitch, affitto!!!
... that there are certain things which are an inevitable consequence of being a flatmate. If you are a flatmate, there is an absolute certainty that you will have to pay rent. Rent is inexorable. The unstoppable force.
The thing about rent is that you are contractually bound to pay it. You have already promised to pay it. Whether or not you feel like it at the present moment. You can't change your mind. You have contractually guaranteed that you will not change your mind. You are fucked. You have to pay it. There is no choice.
So it is with a heavy heart that I report that my personal finances have now been raided by Her, as surely as if she marched me to the bank at the end of a sawn off shotgun. The Landlord, hallowed be his name, must be paid: "Your flatmate don't have the money? That don't confront me, as long as I get my rent money by next Thursday."
So I paid for both of us. Seeing as how there has recently been a conspicious absence of The Flatmate. And a corresponding vacuity in the kitty where the cash should have been. The absence is neither unexpected nor unpleasant. At least there is also a lack of filthy dishes. Usually she is drunk at the Russian's place, or coked out of her mind at some nightclub after-party somewhere. She usually turns up after a couple of days and flounces past the corruption she has wrought.
This time she was away for more than a week, probably closer to two. I actually found myself slightly worried. Perhaps in some ironic deal the Russian had sold her to a people smuggler who had to supply a specialty whorehouse in Irkutsk who needed drunken Westerners. Pre-addicted. Whatever.
But no. She's been in fucking Italy to meet a furniture removalist from Calabria she met somewhere in Greece. For fuck's sake.
Today's reason I want to gut, clean and skin my Flatmate: she is incapable of feeling any remorse whatsoever concerning the expenditure she causes others, feels no compulsion to make any offer to repay or otherwise compensate for same, and instead spends Christ only knows how much on international air travel, Campari, chinotto, cappuccino and gift-wrapped fucking biscotti. I didn't ask for the fucking biscotti, I don't want the fucking biscotti, you obviously didn't buy me a weeks rent worth of fucking biscotti, take the fucking biscotti and shove them right up your fucking posteriore, and give me my fucking rent.
Ciao, beyatch.
The thing about rent is that you are contractually bound to pay it. You have already promised to pay it. Whether or not you feel like it at the present moment. You can't change your mind. You have contractually guaranteed that you will not change your mind. You are fucked. You have to pay it. There is no choice.
So it is with a heavy heart that I report that my personal finances have now been raided by Her, as surely as if she marched me to the bank at the end of a sawn off shotgun. The Landlord, hallowed be his name, must be paid: "Your flatmate don't have the money? That don't confront me, as long as I get my rent money by next Thursday."
So I paid for both of us. Seeing as how there has recently been a conspicious absence of The Flatmate. And a corresponding vacuity in the kitty where the cash should have been. The absence is neither unexpected nor unpleasant. At least there is also a lack of filthy dishes. Usually she is drunk at the Russian's place, or coked out of her mind at some nightclub after-party somewhere. She usually turns up after a couple of days and flounces past the corruption she has wrought.
This time she was away for more than a week, probably closer to two. I actually found myself slightly worried. Perhaps in some ironic deal the Russian had sold her to a people smuggler who had to supply a specialty whorehouse in Irkutsk who needed drunken Westerners. Pre-addicted. Whatever.
But no. She's been in fucking Italy to meet a furniture removalist from Calabria she met somewhere in Greece. For fuck's sake.
Today's reason I want to gut, clean and skin my Flatmate: she is incapable of feeling any remorse whatsoever concerning the expenditure she causes others, feels no compulsion to make any offer to repay or otherwise compensate for same, and instead spends Christ only knows how much on international air travel, Campari, chinotto, cappuccino and gift-wrapped fucking biscotti. I didn't ask for the fucking biscotti, I don't want the fucking biscotti, you obviously didn't buy me a weeks rent worth of fucking biscotti, take the fucking biscotti and shove them right up your fucking posteriore, and give me my fucking rent.
Ciao, beyatch.
posted at 13:37
14 comments
