Roommate Confessions

You've done some bad stuff to your roommate. It's time to confess.

Roommate Confessions
uPick

Rooming With a Soccer Hooligan

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Ah, Jeff. Rooming with an English soccer hooligan seemed like a fun novelty at first. I was willing to do you favors, pick up some of your crap from the common areas, etc., because that's part and parcel of living with someone. Hey, no problem. But it wore me down. The 3 a.m. phone call asking me to pick you up from Alphabet City (from Westchester) and pretending that yourr life was in danger to get me to come. The time you got drunk at the airport bar and missed your flight so I had to pick your ass up at midnight instead of 5 p.m. when I had work at 7 a.m. (not to mention some skank you met on the plane to whom you offered a ride home to Tribeca, nonetheless). The many, many times I found you passed out on the couch, sink full of dishes and food all over the floor. The soda cans I would find in the apartment with your skanky girlfriend's cigarette butts in them (did you really think we wouldn't notice the smell?). The time I found out you were overcharging me rent by $100/month. The time I finally got in touch with the landlord and got chewed out because it turns out you were constantly late paying the rent but blamed it on me. You thought you were smart, having some under the table job coaching soccer long after your visa expired. You got to dance around on a field and have inappropriate contact with teenage girls. You got to trash an apartment week after week and have someone else clean up after you. Life was good for you. But just so you know, after you moved out, I went ahead and Googled your name periodically and alerted your then-current employees to your shenanigans with your former players - 5 jobs in 2 years...my, you do travel a lot these days. Oh, and I did send your GF an anonymous email about your penchant for nose candy - I got to read the whole email exchange since you used my computer without permission and never logged out of your hotmail account. Oh, and I did call the INS on you - tell me, life still good digging ditches in Manchester?

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