I have two new flatmates. I think one of them might be a closet lesbian who is secretly in love with her ‘best friend’, the other new flatmate.
To cut two long stories short, I’ve been home alone on a Saturday night twice now when Psycho Closet Lesbian has come home in the middle of the night, holed herself up in her room and started wailing hysterically. Hysterically. The second time this happened, she was swearing at the top of her lungs as well, screaming into her pillow: ‘SHIIIIIIIIT!!! FUUUUUUUUCK!!!! STUPID BIIIIITCH!!!’ Odd.
Perhaps even more bizarre is that she actually tried to pretend like she wasn’t there when I tried to talk to her. I’m like, ‘Uh…hello?’ Silence. ‘Um…are you ok?’ Silence. ‘Come on, I know you’re in there. I just want to know if you’re okay…’ I get nothing. No response. What a freak.
The second time it happens, I break down her door. I thought someone might have been forcing her to have bizarre animalistic sex. (Okay, I may or may not have just smoked a massive spliff just minutes prior, but I am certain you would have thought the same had you heard the noises emanating from that room.) But when I explode through her door – eyes bloodshot with the effort of fighting a thick sense of lethargy – it’s just her, alone and half naked, sniffling into her pillow. No ducks, no sheep…no sick, twisted sex partner.
Incomprehension gives way to Panic and Panic gives way to Terror. Terror kicks Lethargy’s ass and I am outta there, pulling on shoes and tearing through the front garden to somewhere, anywhere that’s not there.
Re-assessing my local: The Oaks on Military Rd gets serious points for providing a refuge at one o’clock on the morning. The staff also get points for not questioning my outfit (pyjamas and knee high FMBs - the only shoes I could find at the time, it would seem). And for letting me sit there without a drink until my friends arrived. Still, I can’t believe this place has the gall to charge you $30 to cook your own steak. Outrageous.
