My roommate and I are a domestic dispute waiting to happen.
I would never hit her. I think reality has done that enough. We just have moments of heated discussion.
“Eat an M&M!”
“No thanks Natalie I don’t want one.”
“I’m good thanks.”
“THIS MEANS YOU DON’T LOVE ME!”
Yup. That’s exactly what it means. Exactly.
I think our problem is that we live together. Okay. It’s not that bad. She does the dishes every week or two. And on occasion she lets me cook for her. And she’s really good at cleaning off poop stains in the toilet.
But we scream a lot. And she throws things. Heavy things. Things that hurt. Like whatever half eaten sandwich she’s currently gnawing her way through.
Honestly thought, most of our fights are fake fights. Like when she called me condescending.
(While rolling my eyes) “No Natalie, I’m just logical.”
“See!” She yelled!
“I think you’re confusing being right with being wrong.”
Now what about that conversation says condescending to me will remain a mystery.
I just can’t wait for the day when one of our neighbors calls the cops and I open my door to see the NYPD staring back.
“We got a call about some loud screams and shouting coming from your apartment. Is there a problem?”
I’ll then point to my beautiful roommate as she sits legs opened wide, eating a sandwich as mayo drips down her chin, while she scratches her left boob.
The cops will then pat me on the shoulder, and walk away.