Last year, my roommate from South Korea (who is no longer my roommate, for obvious reasons) was the epitome of the phrase “Roommate from Hell.”
Everything started out well enough; she was friendly and, to your face, seemed willing to work with you to make cohabitation a fun prospect. After the first few days, however, I found that the first year of university residence life was going to be a nightmare.
Only a few nights in to the school year, my roommate started masturbating—while I was trying to sleep. I mean, what the hell?! It was so awkward I just pretended to be asleep. I didn’t even know what to say the next morning. Let me know if you need alone time? Go somewhere else to get off? God, just not while I’m trying to sleep?
After that, it became apparent from the long, thick, black hairs (I’m rather fair haired) that she was using my hair brush. Now, I’m not picky about friends borrowing stuff, you know, like staplers, highlighters, or the Swiffer. But toiletry kit stuffs? That’s crossing a line. And only a week into living with her.
Her sleep schedule was ridiculous, too. I was no early bird, but while I’d go to sleep at midnight and wake up around eight or nine, Allison would be in and out of the bedroom at least five times past that, usually staying up until four in the morning.
Going home one week to do laundry (and to get away from her and catch up on some Zzzz’s), I left and was reminded how fantastic being an only child was (I’d once thought it a lonely predicament; I thoroughly appreciate it now). When I came back, I found those same loathsome hairs on my pillow and comforter. Goldilocks and the Three Hairs, much?
Beyond that, she brushed her hair constantly (I’d hid my brush after the first incident, so she seemed to have bought her own) and shed hairs all over the place—bedroom, bathroom, hallway, office … Along with constantly brushing her hair, she also had the bad habit of scratching her scalp. Now, dandruff I can understand. But this was ridiculous! She’d just sit at her desk, looking into a vanity mirror, and scratch her scalp non-stop for five, ten, twenty minutes at a time. And she’d do the same at night while I was trying to sleep. By far, I would have preferred a roommate who snored.
She also didn’t seem to know the purpose of a refrigerator. She’d leave the ketchup, pickles, milk, etc. out on her bookshelf for weeks at a time until she finally threw the stuff away. It was a nightmare! If she ate any of it after leaving it out, then I have a newfound respect for the integrity of the Asian stomach.
We shared a suite with two other girls, perfectly lovely (my fondness for them is the reason I didn’t abandon ship and request to move to another room). And they, too, had run-ins with my Roommate from Hell.
When one of them went home for a break, she slept in her bed as well. Later, over spring break, the Roommate from Hell posted pictures on Facebook of her in Washington DC—in my other roommate’s clothes. On confronting her, she denied everything entirely, despite there being photo evidence.
And, last but not least, she was boy crazy. That, I can understand, and I could have dealt with, but she committed some unforgivable acts of lust toward others. At three in the morning, she’d get a random booty call, and, instead of going out in the hall to talk, she’d take the call right there in the bedroom when I was trying to sleep. On another weekend after going home, I found “mysterious white stains” on my comforter. Needless to say, I washed the comforter before sleeping with it. Twice.
I’m a relatively easy-going person. Since parting ways with the Roommate from Hell and joining with the two suitemates and a new addition, I’ve loved res life, so I know for a fact it was her and not my high expectations. I’ll shoot my foot if there are more thorough, more Hellish entries than this. My roommate is the one and only, The Roommate from Hell.