O Come, All Ye Faithful.

Chances are, anyone who reads this knows about the year I’ve had and where I spent the large majority of it. For anyone who doesn’t, this post is for you, and is aptly titled “My Life With A Monster,” because that is, in fact, what it was: a monster. It, in this instance, refers to the roommate I had from September of 2010 to August of 2011.

Quick character sketch:

• 25-years old.
• No job.
• Lied about going to school. In the year I spent there, he traveled the 1/2 mile to campus one time. By car.
• Made up classes when I would ask what he was taking.
• No checking account. Paid for everything with cash given to him by his father, unless it was the rent check, which would arrive right on time several days after the end of the grace period every month. Again, signed and dated by his father.
• At one point ingested so much Mellow Yellow soda in a 12-hour period that his kidneys began to swell. He initially thought he was laying on a TV remote.
• When asked twice by the apartment complex to clean up the balcony that I was not aware we had, he suggested that he just go out and by some bamboo screening to avoid cleaning it.
• Lied about the utilities on the initial advertisement, which stated that we were responsible for none.
• In-N-Out order was 2 double-doubles, 2 fries, and a large milkshake.
• Still has my spare car key, months after I was forced to call his Dad about it.

The man is truly scum—a larger-than-life piece of human garbage that has and will amount to nothing for the duration of his wasted time on this planet. He fancies himself some type of Internet crusader, posting links to popular HuffPost articles that he found by way of an aggregate website and adding some comment that expresses his in-the-know disdain for the state of things. His presence was palpable, in that, had I been hooked up to some type of monitoring device that measured levels of happiness and relaxation, the sudden drop after hearing him enter the apartment would be similar to the one that would happen should my social security number be stolen on the day I’m diagnosed with AIDS on a plane that’s crashing into a mountain made of olives and scenes from movies where they use close-up shots of a buzzsaw ripping through someone’s chest plate. It depressed me knowing he was even in the same state as I was.

Well, when did you first have the inkling that this would be the worst apartment experience of your life, Riley?

About 2 weeks in. We shared the electricity bill, and my roommate, who would go home for sometimes a week at a time, would leave all of the lights in the kitchen on before he left. When I turned them off one fateful evening in September, I saw the outline of his door illuminated. His bedroom lights were on! I figured I’d poke my head in, turn them off, and shut the door. No harm, no foul.

There were also 3 fans running. In the corner, to the right of the vantage point of the photographer, is a fish tank, black and riddled with fungus, death, and disease. It was as if I had stumbled into a morgue. The smell was overpoweringly awful.

Knowing that it wasn’t my place to correct his living habits, I said nothing. It wasn’t until Christmas break 2010 came along that the madness spilled out into the common area. He had already left the sink a disaster on many occasions, but I received a text a week into my break. It was him.

“The sink is broken, dude.”

Me: Did you notify the complex?

“Yeah. They haven’t done anything. It’s been a few days now. There is some stuff in the sink, though.”

I get back to LA for New Years with Paul Bie in tow. We’re ready for a Fraser Hammersly Presents: event, but, knowing who I’m dealing with, expect that the weekend will be sullied somehow by the monster. I warn Paul about the degree of shit that I live in. I don’t think it really hit him until we came upon this monstrosity.

Turns out, broken sink to him meant “use everything in the house before having it taken care of.” The smell nearly forced Paul to vomit, as it did to me, as well. The holiday was off to a wonderful start.

I ended up having to place all of the items above in plastic trash bags, which I placed in front of his door. Those bags were left untouched for another couple of months. I managed to go down to the apartment manager, filed a repair request, and had it fixed the DAY AFTER I GOT THERE. The monster had clearly not left and was content with sitting in mounds of his own shit while bile and E. coli caked his lungs.

We had a dishwasher, mind you. He just felt that you had to “rinse” adequately before putting it in, which is true, and I applaud him for making that judgement call. But when circumstances become dire, SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO FUCKING PUT THE DISHES IN THE SINK WITHOUT RINSING THEM, SO AS TO AVOID THE SMELL OF BURNT HAIR AT A SEWAGE TREATMENT PLANT.

When he WOULD use the dishwasher, it would be something like this:

Those are used dishes stacked on top of the rack. Complete with food and paper napkins, the intention of the perpetrator of such a calamity clearly does not revolve around cleaning. Instead, it revolves around him making his way back into his room without a care or shred of decency, where he would more than likely watch repeats of South Park on Netflix instant and masturbate with some condiment he more than likely spilled on his Nightmare Before Christmas Snuggie (this is real).

If it sounds like I’m angry, it’s because I am—the full joy of my senior year of college could not be realized with this person in existence. I had anxiety about the rent, worried about what the state of my apartment would be upon returning, and couldn’t really cook, eat, or sleep there. I was fearful of using the counter after that 2nd week in September, when I stumbled upon something called Blood Worms, melted on the counter. Look closely at what this says:

This is fish food, meant to be kept frozen, and he left it on the counter. Where we eat. Spectacular.

There are many other anecdotes, facts, and evidence that I am eager to share with everyone. I am and have been working on a documentary about my experience. It is a series of interviews with me, and is also aptly titled: Frost/Nixon.

If I ever receive that car key, it will be the end of the worst journey I’ve ever embarked on. The time I spent in that apartment weighs on me and covers me like a wet towel. It has made me more discerning of apartment scenarios, but has made it impossible for me to trust people who are in need of a roommate.

I will say this now to defend myself: when I looked at it, the place was immaculate. It had been professionally cleaned, but as we all know now, I was duped. He got me. The great heist of my time and energy of the 21st century. Jason Statham will play him in my biopic.

Actually, it should be someone more along the lines of Chaz Bono.

I hate you, roommate. I hate you forever. But I thank you. I am stronger, and could live in a gutter now with ease.

(Editors Note: I hope you have received a few chuckles while reading. I only wrote this post because I showed some German people the photos I had saved on my computer when the topic of shitty hostels came up. I am not fixating on the past year while having a lovely time in Europe. Why, that would be crazy. But god dammit, do I hate him! )