The Ette Chronicles

Dear Friend Series, “Housemate”

Dear Housemate,

I didn’t expect to be friends when you agreed to let me move in. I liked that we bonded over the summer watching movies and shopping and have mutual friends but honestly, sometimes I wonder why I became friends with you.

You hold a double standard against me, which irritates me to be honest. I hate that you talk constantly behind my back and then treat me as the greatest friend to my face. I also hate that you no self esteem and that you fish for compliments, especially from guys to prove your worth.

You sleep around, you even label yourself as a sex addict, which is fine with me,  I have no problem with a girls having a good time with a gentleman. However I do have a problem with you always telling me never to bring guys to the apartment, stating that they are only after the “nookie.” You don’t think I know that? Why else would I bring them over? I don’t want anything serious now. Sometimes I feel that you do not want me to bring guys over because you want to be the one housemate that has the guys lining up for her. You want to be the girl every guy want and desire. So much that you are now debt for it and you need a new closet and bathroom space for things that would help achieve that goal.  

If I want a guy over, I will have him over. I don’t need your permission to do so. Not only are you not my sister/mother/Voldemort/etc, but do I pay my half of the rent ON TIME and all of the internet bill, so that you may find “boyfriends” online.

This is another issue we need to discuss. 

The kind of men you meet online do not want to be your boyfriends. They just want to fuck and flight. I know you inner nympho is desperate for some D and you’re also stressed over the fact that you are the last single sister in your family but you need to calm your tits. The guys you date can smell the desperation through your profile. You say things on your profile, marriage, children, etc. that gives the men you actively seek for ammunition on how they can approach you, meet you,  have sex with you, and then leave. I’ve seen this time and time again. You need to calm down, just because you are in your late 20s and most of your high school class is married doesn’t mean that you need to get marry soon. Most of the people you went to high school with married during or after high school due to pregnancy and not for love. Consider yourself lucky.

Onto our second issue. 

I hate that you point out what a “slob” I am to mutual friends. First of all, If you have a problem with the way I live how about  telling it to my face. Second of all, I do most of the cleaning in the apartment, despite being at school from morning to late night on most days. You start work in the afternoon and you’re done way before I am. You can sacrifice one morning a week to accomplish some housework, since you, not I, is the slob.

Anyone who takes a tour of our apartment can very well that there is a pile of dishes on your side of the sink that need washing.  I also see empty chef boyardee cans sitting on the counter, have been for days, next to the bowl of stale popcorn that’s been there for a week. moving towards to the living room, I see all of the crap, that you taken out from the cupboard underneath the stairs (yes we do have one, and yes I have pretended to be Harry Potter a few times), all over the floor. Cups of your weird juice all around the living area, along with mail (even mail that is mine that you have failed to let me know arrived, thanks so much).

I would appreciate it if you would place your junk back to where it belongs. Opened mails belong on top of the dining table, so we can both see that we have mail, dishes should be washed daily, the futon should be cat fur free, the carpet should be cleaned since you spilled wine over it. Finally, put my fucking nail polish back where it belongs. I didn’t even give you permission to use it. 

Yes, our place is a mess, but I didn’t make it and frankly I am tired of cleaning up after you. So before you decide to gripe to one of our friends about the mess of our apartment, take a tour, take some notes, and please realize that you made this mess.

The right guy (bless his soul whoever he will be) will come to you when the time is right. In the mean time, clean up your act literally. I don’t want to see or clean your mess anymore.

I mean well, 

Ette

P.S. I actually wrote this a few months ago, but forgot to publish it.