I may murder my flatmate.
There are many good reasons for me to murder him. One of which being his level of laziness, which is actually the laziest I have ever see in a person. He'll drop food on the kitchen floor and then just leave it there. In the beginning I just watched, sure that he'd pick it up like any normal person would. But upon realising that he was just going to ignore it, I asked him to pick it up.
His response was a big *sigh* and "I'll do it later."
The other day I found bits of meat stuck to the wall in the kitchen above the bin. Rather than make the two steps from the kitchen counter to the bin, he just threw the offcuts of meat at the bin, missed, and left it sticking to the wall.
Of course, he never washes anything up. He waits until his girlfriend comes over and makes her wash up for him. Again, with a big exhausted sigh and the excuse that he's too tired to do it. Then he'll go back to his room and play computer games whilst his girlfriend washes up for him.
He often smells bad due to the idea of putting clothes in the washing machine being one of extreme exertion (something he is against).
The other day we had no more clean cuttlery because he'd some how used 9 forks in the making of his dinner and had left them all unwashed in the sink. I shouted at him that I needed a fork to actually eat my food. He came out, washed up a single fork and then went back to his room.
I take the piss out of him frequently about how lazy he is. He sees laziness as a virtue and certainly nothing to be ashamed of.
But this isn't the main reason I want him dead.
Every morning, when I wake up and come out of my room he asks me, in the manner of a gameshow host, "How are you this fine morning?", "Are you happy?"
I am not a morning person. I'm not much of an afternoon or evening person either. But in the morning I need to fix my head around the coming misery of the day.
Being confronted by that kind of shit just makes me angry.
I don't know how I am. I've just fucking woken up. Am I happy? Are any of us happy? It's the fucking morning and not the time for philosophical questions about happiness. Am I looking forward to my day? Of course I'm fucking not. What would I have to look forward to? Work?
I've started to call him Oblomov, and anyone who has read Ivan Goncharov would understand.
I advised him to read the short story (it's only 160 odd pages) but he let out a sigh and said, "Ugh, but it's a book. Books are boring."
Last edited by Kharn The Complainer; 03-30-16 at 07:45 AM.