The not-so-fun part of moving out of a place you hate is that you still have to deal with clinically psychotic people even after you’re gone. Since moving into my new place a little over a week ago, I feel like a completely different person. I didn’t realize the depth of the loathing I felt for the previous house, and I notice now that for the first time in my life, I know what it’s like to truly detest another human being.

In order to find out if I would be getting my deposit money back this week, I took it upon myself to call my former landlord on Monday. She didn’t return my call, so I called her again on Tuesday. Still no answer. So I proceeded to call her once or twice every hour or so for the rest of the day. She didn’t call me back until Wednesday afternoon. The good news: she sent the check in the mail yesterday (even though I offered to go to the house and pick it up in person, to save her the hassle of mailing it). The lame news: she knocked off $150 from the deposit. In the six months I lived there, I apparently necessitated a steam cleaning of the carpet, a few spots on the wall that needed repainting, and a “deep cleaning” of the bathroom. I had cleaned everything completely when I moved out, but I was sort of expecting the cleaning issue from the bitch; I knew that no matter how clean I felt the place was, she would use her microscopic vision declare that there were air molecules all over the place.

I’m occasionally told that I’m way too nice, and that I need to take a stand during a time such as this. I nearly did, but I stopped myself before I got started. Here’s why:

• My former landlord is insane. And evil. When I tried to use reason and intelligence to explain the concept of homophobia to my folks, I failed to get very far. From that, I learned that trying to rationalize with anyone who is irrational is pretty much a waste of breath. I concluded that, were I to argue my case, evil landlady would stop payment on the check and offer me even less money back. Hence, I concluded that I should take the money and run.

• Arguing my case would have meant talking to her more. I discovered that when you hate someone that much, the sooner you stop talking to that someone, the better off you are. I’m burning inside to just verbally rip her to shreds, but if I did, that might force me to have to deal with her more in the future, which is the last thing I want. At least now I know what crazy looks like, I’ll be better able to avoid it in the future.

And in the unlikely event that I ever happen to run into her at some point in the future, I’ll do the only sensible thing I can do: punch her in the face. But in the meantime, I’m far too busy basking in the glory that is freedom to live. As soon as that check arrives and I’ve got it in the bank, I’m declaring ‘case closed’ to this roommate nightmare. Ahhhh….

Compared to my last move, this one is like a walk in the park. Maybe it’s because I’m only moving 3.5 miles away from where I’m currently at, instead of 800. Maybe it’s because I get to take a few days to make the whole move, and can thus move a little at a time. Maybe it’s because there’s a whole lot less bitching at me for being a big gay disaster. Maybe it’s because I’m almost free from the crazy lesbian roommate who may as well have “666″ tattooed across her chest. Or maybe it’s a combination of all of the above.

This by no means gets me off the hook in terms of moving being a shit ton of work. I’m seriously wiped out. The only reason I’m awake to write this right now is because I took an hour-long nap earlier today. After carrying a box that I had mistakenly packed too full of textbooks and other large volumes, thus making it very fucking heavy, and actually managing to carry the thing into my new place, only to have the thing burst open as soon as I got it in the door, I figured I deserved the shuteye. Not to mention license to write lengthy and confusing run-on sentences.

I can’t believe it, but I’m literally down to less than 72 hours left under the reign of Lady Lucifer. I was thrilled to learn, upon my return, that when I stopped my incoming mail due to my extended absence from LA, it stopped ALL the mail to the house; she actually had to be the one to go to the main post office and pick up all the mail. The fact that she made it a point to inform me of this occurrence the moment I walked in the door indicated that she wasn’t too thrilled about the ordeal. I took it as a testament to my awesomeness. Aw, yeah!

This is Cody, the sexually ambiguous puppy who, were he a bit tougher, would be the new man about the house. But since he belongs to my roommate, there’s no chance he’ll ever beat her out in terms of masculinity.

Despite his tiny stature, I feel a certain amount of kinship to the little fella. This is perhaps because Saturday night, he was evidently the cause of mass hysteria between my roommate, whose surname I’m convinced is Lucifer, and her now-estranged girlfriend. And given that I had previously unwittingly caused one such escapade before, I think that more or less cements us as kindred spirits.

I won’t go into too much detail, other than that I’ve got thirty more days to call this place my place of residence. If before I thought of this place as Hell, and Hell was a bar… this place has now become such a dive that it’s no longer the bar itself, but rather the toilet in the one bathroom stall where everyone goes to puke.

As I was saying, though, Cody caused quite the stir. To the point that the arguing extended beyond what was previously only verbal abuse, into physical abuse. Like, punch and scratch and try to choke each other physical abuse. As was the case with me, it wasn’t so much that they were fighting over him, but rather that he was used as the scapegoat for all their problems.

I’m not exactly thrilled that Cody is in Beelzebub’s care, to be perfectly frank. She already informed me that he would always be with her, everywhere she went. Which is her way of saying she doesn’t want me around the poor guy. I have no problem with this, except that in her raging state of self-pity, she left the house yesterday afternoon and left him locked up in the utility room. And she was gone for hours.

I’m shocked she got the puppy for several reasons:

• She hates it when things get dirty.
• She’s not as affectionate is she’s been boasting of being for the last 24 hours.
• She thinks that saying “ow you’re hurting me” will make the dog stop biting her.
• She thinks she can potty train a puppy by leaving him in the utility room for five hours.

I spent the better part of the day away from the house yesterday. I called the domestic violence hotline in the morning to see what I could do, as a roommate and not particularly loved person in the lives of the war-mongering lesbians. Then I left the house a little after 11 and didn’t return until almost five in the evening. Upon my return, my roommate, nostrils flaring, left.

I puttered around the house, enjoying the quiet. It was a sharp and welcome departure from the yelling and screaming that took place from midnight until 2am Saturday night. I heard the dog whining at some point, so I went to check on him. As is the case every time I see the thing, I expect him to look me in the eye, cock his head to one side, and say “Yo quiero Taco Bell.” But he just looked at me and whimpered, then jumped up to greet me.

I took him outside so he could run around and drain his little pea-sized bladder. He did, and then we ran around outside a bit before returning inside to play some more. He decided, mid-play, that he also needed to poop, and promptly made to do so on the carpet. I snatched him up and took him outside in an effort to stop him. I’m tough when it comes to potty training, and if you squat indoors I go right outside with you and won’t let you in until you’re done. Only Cody never went, and after 20 minutes I decided he either a) had cramps or b) became constipated when stricken with fear. The neighboring garage band was practicing on drums, and he was terrified.

I opted to let the dog roam the house and stretch his legs, because, call me crazy, I just couldn’t bring myself to shut him back up in the utility room. That and I love having him around because he’s hands down the most awesome resident, aside from myself, living at this address. He’s skin and bones, though, so I ventured to his food dish to see if I could encourage him to eat. Old Cloots keeps his food and water dish in the utility room, only since Cody is terrified of the large silver dishes, he refuses to go near them.

I think she with the cloven hooves assumed that, if left long enough, Cody would become so hungry that he’d have no choice to but to eat. Apparently, she does not know this dog, because he would rather die than have to actually eat from the bowl. Satan inquired of me, when I reported this to her later, what I felt was the cause of said fear. My reply was, “Oh, I don’t know, MAYBE BECAUSE THEY WEIGH MORE THAN HE DOES AND ARE ONLY SLIGHTLY TOO SMALL FOR GREAT DANES.”

While in the middle of this heated debate about Cody’s eating habits (or lack thereof–the picture above was taken while he was staring forlornly at the food in the dish from which he refuses to eat), 666 Woman paced the living room. And it was then she noticed what I had totally overlooked earlier: dog poop, right at the corner of the rug in her precious living room. Little Cody had managed to pinch a loaf right there on the carpet. First, I was miffed, because I thought I had caught him just in time earlier. Then I was bummed that I didn’t get to chew the dog out for being such a bad dog! and all. Then I was filled with understanding about why he simply refused to go potty earlier when he had seemed so desperate to when I tossed him outside. And finally, I was thrilled about the whole thing, especially about the fact that he didn’t get in the slightest trouble with his sadist of an owner. Because that means he’s going to keep it up. Like, ‘Oops, I crapped on the carpet, good thing she thinks I’m so cute because she’ll just laugh and tell me how cute I am.’

I spent nearly an hour today talking to my roommate’s partner. It was pretty much the best hour of my entire week. Over the course of our conversation, it suddenly became clear that my experience living in this place was not Hell, or any of its seven circles. Nay, it was more like Purgatory.

It turns out that that big fight that happened last month was in part started by yours truly. Here’s how it played out: Satan was complaining about me to her fabulous partner, who in turn took it upon herself to come to my defense, bless her. Apparently, my “lack of cleanliness” was causing The Evil One great pain. You know, the towels were wet because I had used them to dry my hands, and I had thus upset the delicate balance of cleanliness she strives so hard to achieve.

Long story short, it seems that I drive my snarling poodle of a roommate a whole hell of a lot crazier than she drives me. Which fills me with such a sense of pride I can barely stand it. I mean, just knowing that when she spent those three solid hours cleaning the bathroom, it was on account of my having driven her to it. You know the feeling of eating the most delicious chocolate cake coupled with the best chocolate ice cream ever? This feels almost as good.

And it gets better! Oh, does it get better! It turns out that the whole issue of the bathroom “looking nice” comes from the boyfriend she had in high school (he’s gay) making some crack about it. He also, apparently, asked her why she lets me live here, because I’m “weird.” This is awesome for two reasons: 1) The idea of evicting someone not on account of not paying rent or maybe being consistently loud or invasive, but on what a guy who buys a 15-foot tall mirror for his living rooms simply because he can considers “weird”, and 2) The concept of my actually paying to live here is not even considered in said argument.

But as things go with roommates, so too might they go with partners. I was right when I thought that that argument was the breaking point of the dysfunctional relationship of my roommate and her partner. I was wrong, however, when I thought they had gotten over the argument and were back together. Girlfriend told me everything, and it seems my pending move couldn’t have come at a better time. Because the drama of my household is about to surpass that of Passions. And just as it does, I’m going to be flying free at last.

This entry is inspired by my roommate, who caught me walking out of the bathroom just now (I’m so glad I was wearing my robe) and in her fake happy conversationy way told me she wanted me to clean the bathroom. I almost said “Why? You cleaned it so well last week that it’s practically impervious to getting dirty,” but thought better of it. Instead, I said “Sure thing,” and promptly rushed to the safety of my room and slammed the door shut.

I’d been thinking about this anyway, but was further inspired by this event to post ten ways you know it’s time to move out. I like to think that this will benefit the greater good, so here goes.

10. You’re afraid to actually be in the kitchen, much less use it, when your roommate is in the vicinity.
9. You’re thrilled to leave the house for the day instead of being relieved to get home.
8. You’re afraid to talk too loudly on the phone for fear that your roommate can hear you. Or worse yet, is eavesdropping on you.
7. Your roommate randomly breaks out the vacuum at 11:30 at night and spends an hour vacuuming her room.
6. Your roommate takes it upon herself to clean the bathroom you use. This would be a perk, except in the instance that she takes three hours to clean the space that takes you no longer than 40 minutes.
5. Your roommate almost knocks herself out because she’s exposed herself to too many household chemicals in a confined area for too long. This spells bad news for you, given that you’re also being exposed to the toxic chemicals
4. A simple palm tree toothbrush holder is deemed by your roommate to be inappropriate decor for a bathroom with dark brown walls.
3. You get bitched at for using some of the butter that your roommate never actually uses, only to find out that your roommate eats a ton of your honey roasted peanuts.
2. You roommate refuses to call the power company about power-related problems, even after repeated power failures.

And the number one reason you know it’s time to move out…

1. You lock the door to the bathroom every time you take a shower for fear that your roommate (who never uses your bathroom, in theory) will open it while you’re in there.

In keeping with her tradition of spending more time in my bathroom than I do, my roommate recently exchanged the small night light, whose bulb burned out, for one of those electronic air freshener things. It’s way over-the-top, as usual. As in, it’s very fragrant. Overpowering, even. Every time I walk into the bathroom it’s like someone just shoved a bunch of roses on steroids into my face, which leads me to suspect that this particular model of air freshener was intended for use in a warehouse, rather than the 3.5′ x 8′ space that is my bathroom.

This is yet another area in which my roommate and I differ. We’d previously established that I am not OCD and I am not bipolar. We can now add “prefers household chemicals to be inhaled in limited quantities” to that list.

Today was OCD Extravaganza! at la casa de Phil. We’re talking 9 in the morning until 6 in the evening of the most insane cleaning frenzy to which I’ve ever had to bear witness. Much to my surprise, Cruella de Vil didn’t so much as point a finger in my direction. She did, however, spend a solid two or three hours cleaning my the guest bathroom.

(Before I forget, I feel I must add that we had a most bizarre conversation about the weather. Today was hot and windy, a rather unpleasant combination. “Oh, you’re new to California, so you don’t know about the weather. This is earthquake weather,” Cruella informed me. It occurred to me that she was not, in fact, trying to pull my leg as I suspected. She was dead serious. To which I replied, “Um, ok. Pssshhh.” But the nerd in me couldn’t resist, of course, getting a perspective or two on the issue.)

Moving on. I arrive back to the house at nearly 11pm (show at the university theater and then hunting for a lost cat that we ended up finding!), and Ms. de Vil comes flying out her bedroom door to ask me if I know some police officer that was supposed to be keeping an eye on us tonight. Nope, don’t know him. So we bid one another good night and she leaves the house. Which is totally out of character for her, but whatever.

I adjourn to my room, where I put some music on and relax on my bed for a bit before deciding to post this. And as soon as I finish the first paragraph, I hear the front door open and then close. I hear footsteps making a beeline for the roommate’s door, and then I hear pounding and yelling, and two female voices working in perfect discord against one another. Apparently, we’ve gone from soap opera to Jerry Springer within a mere twenty-four hour period. That’s got to be some kind of record.

It’s easy to forget about some of the perks of living in my current place of residence. I mean, all the drama about broken garage doors, trash, towels, and dishes almost made me forget that the the woman I live with is not only anal retentive, probably bipolar, and obsessive compulsive, but also a lesbian! And lesbian drama can be the bitchiest, scariest drama the world has ever seen.*

While out and about this evening, we were in the neighborhood (sort of) so I convinced my friend Letizia to pay her respects to the funeral home where I live. I realized it was a house of death upon entering. Voices from the living room could be heard over the television (which is unprecedented), and sure enough, we had stumbled upon Bitchfest 2008. Which, to understate things, was quite the scene.

I was afraid to actually peek in and announce our presence for fear that my roommate would cast her eyes upon me and I’d suddenly burst into flame, or else turn into a giant naked stone statue. Medusa, it seemed, was on the offensive and was screaming at her girlfriend, who I’m proud to report was not taking no shit from nobody, thank you very much. Incidentally, I suddenly became aware that when you, without having heard any of the arguments, automatically side with the significant other who only lives here on weekends, it’s time to give your roommate a friendly “fuck you!” and get the hell out. (That and suggest to the significant other that she do the same.)

I’m viewing this turn of events as ammunition (i.e. blackmail), to be used however I see fit. “Oh, you mean there’s some dirt, on the floor, where you walk? I’m sure you’re the only one who noticed, but hey, at least your company didn’t have to walk in on you and your girlfriend in the midst of a screaming match.” I ran into Medusa when I came home around 11 tonight, and was shocked that she didn’t verbally abuse me for letting a friend in the house. Methinks she was too embarrassed and guilt-ridden to bring it up, which only increases my leverage. Hells. Yeah.

*This obviously blanket generalization does not apply to all lesbians. Excluded from this are the fabulous lesbians I already know and love, and those who I’ve not met but would totally love because they’re so awesome. Also, any readers of this blog who happen to be lesbians clearly do not fit the generalization by virtue of reading this. I heart cool lesbians, but I don’t hart drama, unless it’s of the thespian variety.

In accordance with the diagnosis I received yesterday, I decided it’s time to rid myself of some of the causes of stress in my life. The doctor seemed to think that being in school was cause for a great deal of my stress. Contrary to popular belief, school doesn’t generally stress me out. It used to, like crazy, but not so much anymore. If it did, I probably wouldn’t be fighting sleep in lecture by writing haikus. I thought up this one in my afternoon class:

I’m falling asleep
This class is way too boring
Please just shoot me now

I also found myself somewhat distracted, having decided before class to cave and start seriously searching for a new place to live. I’ve put my time in here at the museum, and it’s high time I take leave of the place, given that I seem to keep breaking things, and the dyke who lost her bike (and is totally pissed off about it) hates fixing things because that costs money. (She’s generally willing to spend tons of money, but then never uses anything, presumably for fear of it breaking. Or something like that.)

For the first time ever, I’m paying for an online service to help me relocate. Thus far, it’s been pretty cool. I’ve gotten a few responses to my ad already, which is, mostly, a good thing. I say ‘mostly’ because it’s not 100%.

By and large, the emails seemed sincere. And then came “Ronaldo.” I’m not sure exactly what he’s looking for in a roommate. On the one hand, he comes across as very nice. But then I looked at his ad. All in one, somehow, he’s included a whole list of things he wants in a roommate:

• someone who might fill in for him in his job as a traveling DJ
• someone who is healthy, fit and likes to work out

At first, I found myself wondering why the hell someone would be that specific. But then I started thinking about how poorly matched my roommate and I are, and perhaps that means he knows something I don’t know. While I have no intention of responding to this guy (probably because in the pictures he posted, he has a picture of himself without a shirt on that says “I like to work out”; a little frightening, that is), I think he’s got a point. I need to have some specific criteria for my potential roommate(s). Here’s what I’ve got so far:

• must not have a problem actually using the furniture
• must keep magnets on the refrigerator
• must not obsessively clean the counters after having only set a plate there
• must let me hang my towel on the shower
• must not own decorative towels or decorative trash cans
• must not be a bitchy asshole

I spoke with one guy on the phone today, and holy shit, it was awkward to bring up some of these things. When he finally figured out what I was saying (I sort of listed them out, because I froze and didn’t know how else to talk about all that), he was like “I keep my home clean, but not like a [fucking*] museum.” And then I knew instantly that this man was no anal retentive lesbian. And even if I don’t wind up rooming with him, he’s automatically listed as “pretty darn cool” in my book.

*Emphasis mine. The man did not use this evil and vulgar word; I totally put words in his mouth there.

There’s just no pleasing some people. My strict policy of laissez-faire home economics was called into question today by She With the Clenched Butt Cheeks.

Clenched Butt Cheek Woman: Um, Phil?
Phil: ….

A minute later

Phil: Oh, did you say my name?
CBCW: Yeah.
Phil: What’s up?
CBCW: Could you take out the trash sometime? I mean, I find nine out of ten times that I take it out.
Phil: Fascinating.

I wonder if it’s maybe because she never seems to be around when I take out the trash? Given my status as “paying renter” here, I never really feel the need to call attention to myself when I take out the trash. Now that I think about it, though, maybe I should. Then I could write little notes that say “Hey look! I took out the trash! I’m so proud of myself, and I think you should be too!”

It seems that, these last few weeks, I’ve become something of a genius when it comes to the house here. Without trying, it seems, I’ve managed to throw things away only when the trash isn’t entirely full. I don’t actually produce all that much in the way of trash. When I lived alone, I only needed to take the trash out ever week to two weeks. Here, my constipated roommate’s trash needs to be taken out oh, probably every three days or so. So when you think about it, it’s really quite justified that the one who is responsible for 90% of the trash should be taking it out 9 out of 10 times. And heck, the complaint is quite unfounded, as the trash is by the door, which is in turn only a few paces away from the big bin outside. And, given all the shit I have to put up with around here, why not grant myself a few perks? It’s totally worth it.