Psycho Roomie, Part XIV: The Initials

Before we had even moved in together, Suzi had us sit down with her mother to go over house rules. And other random stupid stuff. I'm not kidding, her mother was there. Please read this if you haven't already. In that post, I mention our sit-down meeting regarding our living together and how we'd work things out. Things like, sharing condiments and such. The three of us agreed to share such things and whoever used the last of it would buy more. Sounded fair enough.

A few months later, I borrowed a couple packets of her hot chocolate as I was out, with every intention of buying her more. I got bitch slapped twice - once by opening up the cupboard the day I bought her more to find a box with her mother's handwriting that said "Suzi's Hot Chocolate!", and "Suzi Only!" all over the damn box; and the second time by Suzi giving me a box of her hot chocolate in my stocking for Christmas. If you don't believe me and have yet to read about this, please go here.

I bring this old posts up, because of the sheer bitchiness and stupidity of this girl. All the agreements that were made, out the window. I'm not sure why we bothered with the pre-move-in-meeting at all, actually. Possibly to just waste a few hours of mine and Betty's time. Because we had so much freaking spare time being full-time college kids with near full-time jobs.

Sometime in the spring, April or May, I noticed a change in the kitchen. It was subtle, but it still made me think, "This chic is fucking insane."

One day, I was in the kitchen (not sure why, but I'm sure I had a good solid reason), and I happened to see Suzi's bananas. She bought a bunch of bananas each time she was in the grocery store. She wouldn't just tear off one or two, she'd buy a big ol' bunch. It was a rare day that she actually ate a banana. Nine times out of ten, those pretty green/yellow bananas turned brown. Sometimes black before she threw them out. Complete. Waste. Of. Money. I had to stop what I was doing, and actually slide the banana basket towards me to inspect said bananas. I wasn't dreaming. She had actually written her initials on the damn bananas.



Now, let me say this: I never once ate one of her bananas. They are not my favorite fruit. I will eat them, but I don't really care for them. Never really have. I don't like banana flavored things, either. So, it was safe to say, that unless someone held a freaking gun to my head at that point I wasn't going to eat one of her bananas. And before you ask, this was months after the hot chocolate incident (that was before Christmas).

So why was she suddenly writing her initials on the fruit?

I haven't the foggiest idea. Hell could freeze over before I could even come up with something remotely credible. I mean, besides the obvious fact that she was fucking psychotic.

I went about my business. I never mentioned the banana thing to her. In the next week or two, I started noticing her initials on other things. Like her butter. Her mayonnaise. And other random shit. I was slightly dumbfounded and had no idea what prompted this. I mean, how could it be the whole hot chocolate thing considering that had been like 5 months prior to all this happening? Delayed reaction perhaps? Doubtful.

Also, I have to mention why she had her own butter and mayo. She used the squeezable jar of mayo - which isn't a big deal, but I equate that to like, camping or BBQ style mayo. It's easy and accessible when you have lots of people that need mayo. As for the butter, it was blue. I shit you not. You think that stuff is invented for kids? Hell no. It's invented for psychotic idiots who think blue butter is cool. Personally I find it disgusting and treated it like it was the plague. I like my butter normal and yellow please. Thank you. I mean, it looked disgusting in the bottle (oh yeah it was squeezable, too), but it looked wrong on toast. I shudder just thinking about it.

Anyway, so I start finding her initials on all sorts of things. Things in the fridge and things in the cupboards. So I play along. I start initialing my shit. My ketchup, mustard, mayo - you name it, I initialed it. Hey, she started it.

Finally, on a week when her boy-toy Joey was visiting she said something. I walked into the kitchen for something and they were sitting at the dining table, eating. She said something like, "So, are we not sharing stuff anymore?" Seriously?! I simply replied by saying that I had noticed her initials on a lot of items, so I took that as my cue that we suddenly weren't sharing anymore. Her argument? The ever so childish "Nuh-uh". I mentioned the bananas and several other items that still bore her initials - clear as day. Whatever she said was complete and utter bullshit, and I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Not my problem."

You know what happens to crazy people when you stop playing along with them? You piss them off. It's fucking fantastic. It was at this time that I stopped playing as nice as I had been. I didn't go out of my way to piss her off, it just happened. I got tired of saying, "Oh I'm sorry, I misunderstood." There were no more "misunderstandings". I called her on her shit and she didn't like it. I would tell her if she could think of another solution then fine, otherwise fuck off.

And you know what?

I don't know about her, but I had no trouble sleeping at night. ;o)