Being the bitch roommate today. It seems every room needs a dynamic of some sort--and room 213 here happens to have the "meek jellyfish" and "hellcat activist gay pr0n addict."

My roommate can't communicate with people, making it impossible to discuss decisions about the room. This brings us to the opening line. If we can't talk, I'm going to fucking make decisions.

I won't paint myself too sympathetically here. Although I'm aware of a certain (prep TMI!) sexual submissiveness, (TMI complete!) in the world as it stands, I tend to be pretty decisive and headstrong. It comes with the red hair, yo. And, it so happens that I don't enjoy living in utter squalor. While I am a pack rat, I dust and sweep at home relatively often. And so it'll go here. Today was cleaning day. And I'd had enough of the fact that her crap needs a net to stay on that side of the room. So, while vaccuming, I sort of "rearranged" things. Her things.

Yea, I know most of you are sitting there in abject terror. I am, too. If she, say, unalphabetized my CD collection, they could never clean the blood off the walls. But, right about now, I don't think putting empty boxes into bigger empty boxes constitutes as a mortal sin. If she complains (which she probably won't, given that she is, for all purposes, mute) I'll say I thought she would like it if I vaccumed on her side, as well. I also put her multitudes of hygene products in a box--as she keeps them on my dresser. I can't complain about the dresser issue too much--I don't have anything to put on there myself, currently living a spartan lifestyle and all--but you get REALLY SICK of cleaning hair that is not your own out of your clothing.

Vaccuming also meant washing the rugs. Which includes last night's addition. My pet peeve. The thing Most Likely to Be Burnt. Yes, that's right. The Spongebob Squarepants rug.

Now, am I the only person who hates that show? It has the art style of two bricks up Goatse's anus. I don't mind that she has pillowcases with him on them, but a rug? Even a poster would be okay--but Red, having a qualification for all, and an immense irritability of late, considers floor space as "common area." Which means that all things must be acceptable to both occupants. And that rug (which is actually a blanket) is not.

At any rate, it will be "located" after it is clean. Into an area deemed "acceptable." By "me."

Ah well--if I actually cared, or was a little less mean in disposition, I might feel bad. But I don't, and I'm not. Living with her is depressing--it's like watching a weird German game show in which you wait for the participant to kill herself. I'm serious, and I don't mean it nastily. She's just a suicide time bomb. And, as we can't "bond," I watch her objectively. You may all sit in horror at that fact--but I, at least, can acknowledge this in myself. Most would just mock some caring--which I do have a little of, as one would care about hitting a squirrel in the road. It's not deep, but it's there.

It's almost a psychiatry documentary, seeing how much she hates herself. I remember, one of the first comments was about how we were the same height, so she now only had to be "a little more similar in weight." What the heck! She is a little chubby, but goddamn. I hate being some sort of measuring stick on what one should be. Sure, I'm pretty lean, but a childhood of asthma and allergies will do that--as will a vegetarian diet and the metabolism of a killer mongoose. She looks fine. Hell, she has clevage, and I don't dwell on my washboard similarities because of her.

Nor is that the worst of it. She washes her face with hydrogen peroxide. She spends twenty minutes in front of the mirror each morning, not applying makeup, but rather a disturbing brew of astrigents and chemicals. I don't even use the mirror but once every two days--and that's just to see if I got food in my hair working in dishroom. I don't care what your body image is, hydrogen peroxide won't help it.

Well, at least she's going to counciling. Or at least was looking at it. Don't know if she did or not. But she really freakin' needs it.

Yea, yea. I know you're all out there hating me right now. But what the fuck. You get to be right rotten after so long working for activist causes, and after so long reading Orwell and Kafka. I care deeply for my friends, rest assured in that. I just get hard around the edges, especially when I'm learning to live in a small room with another person.