Sunday, June 18, 2017

LETTERS TO ROOMMATES

Letter to Roommate #1

Dear Roommate #1 (aka the Jihadist): Everyone knows leaving hostile sticky notes is just bad form.  So, don’t take this the wrong way, but when you wonder why you’re floating up to heaven, the answer is that you didn’t belong on the planet.  The mere existence of your person is just completely wrecking my universe.  I’m sorry you have a lot of periods, but (a) I’m not sure why you want to share that with me and (b) there are things you can take for that (for fuck’s sake).  And why, mother of God, is every light in the fucking house on?  I swear to God if it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I’m going to disconnect the fucking awful florescent lights that you insist on keeping on 24/7 in the kitchen.  But let’s get on with the real issue. 

I know you’re European and everything (so you think tight jeans and boots is a great look, but I’m here to tell you, they don’t have rodeos in Queens.  Also walking around the kitchen back and forth in said thick-heeled, slut boots at 9:00 a.m. is weird and kind of rude.  You do this early in the morning on a Saturday when people are trying to sleep.  You do it in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday.  Does it make you feel thin, or more horse-like?  I just want to get a sense of why, particularly because I’m trying to get some god forsaken sleep, but I can’t, because I’m bewildered by your strange domestic patterns.  That, and what’s with you and the fucking kitchen.  Get a life.  You shouldn’t stay holed up in the house all day it’s not healthy, and your hair is greasy and there is an odor coming from your Etruscan cave of a bedroom.

You’re crashing dishes and whatever around too – my dishes, incidentally, because you don’t own anything.  You leave them in the sink until things are growing from them.  God forbid anyone make a request that the dishes be done more frequently, because then you blow up like a PMS-ridden-guerilla-psychopath.  It felt very satisfying to block you on my phone, by the way, because I refuse to read text rants, which until I saw them, I didn’t believe they existed.  Your generation doesn’t know how to do anything unless it’s on an app, so I get it, but it doesn’t make it valid.  My generation doesn’t text.  We want a face to face where I will break your nose.

I don’t even want to be writing this shit, but I am so exasperated, I’m about to buy firearms.  I suspect that is the nature of the roommate situation, but that is giving you too much credit.  To act like a cunt over a cabinet shelf and leaving bitchy notes around the apartment means you have mental issues.  I doubt you are in therapy considering you seldom buy anything that resembles a paper product, and you don’t seem to be getting any relief from that meditation class.  I’m trying to keep this light because really I’m praying that you get captured by ICE on your trip back from the motherland, because you’ve been nothing short of a tyrannical nazi whore.  PS – I don’t want any fucking Turkish coffee.  Americans don’t like that shit.  PS2 – no one will ever marry you.


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Letter to Roommate #2

This is a sincere continuance of the roommate letter, but to the other, more pterodactyl-like one who has, and whom I will now refer to as, No Tits.

Dear No Tits:  I know you like to come home and talk on the phone really loud to whoever is on the other end, which, I find astounding that anyone would actually listen to you, because your voice makes me want to scratch my own eyes out.  I’ve never before felt the urge to run across a room and dive out a window than after I’ve heard a diatribe coming from your trachea.  And loud, loquacious vocalizations in the living room the way neurotic cats tend to do at 3:00 a.m. probably makes sense to your rather pigeon-like brain, I’m sure, because although you have a room you could go into to do such things, why not make sure the whole house is disturbed?  You laugh a lot, but it’s like a nervous, right before you lose touch with reality type laugh, and you have weird frizzy hair and seem somewhat dim-witted.  In my act I refer to you as Pennsylvania barnyard stupid.  But, since it creates a furrow in my being, I have stopped talking about you on stage, except to say the part where I believe you sleep upside down in your closet. 

I know this probably seems somewhat hostile, especially considering I smile and try to be pleasant, because that is, in fact, my nature.  But really it’s because I’m imagining your untimely and fairly brutal demise.  It’s the only way I can get through this phase of living in New York affordably, which clearly, I should have thought out better.  My hostility started when you began making comments about my furniture.   You wanted to organize my belongings which frankly are none of your business.  You made comments about my armoire.  The irony is that when you moved in, you didn’t own anything.  Not even a lamp.  You threw a fit because of a table cloth and then minutes later offered me some salmon.  Maybe your medication is off.  I can’t even list it all because I feel more gray hair coming in as I type.


And although I usually cringe at your stories that disclose personal information about your dumb life, when you told me that you had celiac and couldn’t shit, I nearly wept with joy.  I must admit, however fleeting, I was almost grateful for the debacle of my artist-led existence in this over-tiled Greek fortress of a house in stupid Queens.  I found myself almost faint.  Even though living with you has overshadowed other unfortunate living situations, such as the alcoholic who made puppets or the Hawaiian violinist who was in Cabaret on Broadway and referred to its star as “Al” (Alan Cumming) because they were buddies, your having an issue with your dairy air made me almost feel guilty for calling you NTBN – (which is short for No Tits Big Nose).  I would feel guilty except it’s caught on with all of my friends and it provides humor that clearly this household lacks.  And P.S. fuck you too.

PEOPLE NEED TO DIE.

Lately I want to quit standup almost every day.  It’s not performing itself that is driving me crazy.  I think it’s New York.  I have a lot of (don’t say irons in the fire!!!) things going on.  Maybe my problems have two prongs like a kangaroo (look it up).  Prong 1: I seem to get overwhelmed with unstructured time.  Prong 2:  people are generally awful.

There are so many things that suck about New York that I won’t even mention the constant smell of urine and halal.  I moved here going on four years ago.  My first set of roommates were great. One was an editor and the other made puppets.<---- sure they drank beer and whatever but they were nice guys.  My second apartment  has been made up of broads, or as I like to call them - reptilian apartment dwelling PMS ridden sluts.  Actually the first set were heavenly.  Maybe that's what delineates everything else as so abhorrent.  The two girls that I met when I looked at the apartment, I clicked with.  I moved in and we all got along beautifully.  There were no petty quibbles or trivial objections about towels or shelf space.  I like to think that I am pretty easy going.  I never would comment about other people’s furniture particularly after having moved in last.  I would never break balls about an antique or a table.  You know who does that?  Bitches with no furniture. <----- I wrote about this particular topic having coined a new pseudonym for this specific roommate of “pterodactyl.” The two girls that I got along with eventually left.  One went to Houston to get married and the other moved in with her Bulgarian boyfriend in a different part of Astoria.  Sadly, they were replaced by juvenile water dragons with perpetual PMS.  

The Eastern European wears skin tight jeans with whore boots.  There must be a rodeo in town (I don’t believe Queens, New York hosts such types of activities but I suppose one never knows).  The other one is a textbook narcissist with an enormous rear end.  I must have been like a serial killer in a past life to have been given such a treacherous plight.  You can read about them in more detail here.   

Staying on the death/I want to quit theme, I did a show for a theatre in Massachusetts.  I don’t want to name names but I’ll say it something Center for the Arts.  It was in Natick.  After the show, the headliner and I were standing at the doorway greeting the audience as they were slowly filing out.  People commented how much they liked the show.  A friend of the headliner came over.  They greeted each other with a hug and then the friend proclaimed, “I was waiting for you to do that bit about the underwear.”  The portly female comedian replied “well there was enough filth that went on before me that I left it out,” implying that the other comedians, which - I was the only one standing there at the time, did too much dirty material for her to then follow with some stupid bit about underwear.  (insert gunshot noises grenades, rocket launchers & flame throwers) 

MORE LATER.  SIGNING OUT. 
-the Albanian Detractor