The Roommate from Hell — Part 2

Hi again! I hope you are enjoying this Saturday as much as I am not.


In order to distract myself from my existential anger and frustration, I decided to come back to one of the moments when I experienced anger and frustration towards someone else, not myself. That’s basically my secret recipe to cope with life.


Where were we? Ah, yes, the fateful day when all hell broke loose in the apartment. If you haven’t read the first part, here it is.

The frying pan

During a beautiful winter morning, I happened to wake up a bit later than usual. This fine gentleman, that is, my psychotic roommate, was preparing some coffee with milk using a frying pan. Why was he using a frying pan instead of the perfectly good microwave? He refused to help us pay for the microwave, and for the electrical kettle that we had bought for the apartment, so he could only make coffee with the frying pan.

I know this might sound very outlandish if you are living in a university dormitory, but in our apartment, we used to wash dirty dishes right away. Crazy, right? This was specially useful in the morning, since everyone needs clean dishes to make breakfast. Since I needed the frying pan in order to make my student breakfast, I decided to nicely ask him to wash the pan after he had finished using it, so I could cook my breakfast.

He somehow thought that the most appropriate reaction to this request was to run towards me and grab me by my t-shirt, preparing to punch me in the face. Luckily he had a glimpse of sanity, and I managed to push him away from me, screaming “Get away from me, you mental!”, which all other roommates heard and promptly woke up. After he realized that the other 4 people were looking at him, he acted as if nothing had happened. He didn’t even try to explain what was happening.

He simply went back to the kitchen table and had his breakfast without washing the damn pan, for god’s sake. The other roommates and I were just looking at each other, scared. No one really understood what the actual f* just happened. I was obviously even more scared at how someone could snap and unsnap like that.

A bit later the same day, I had this conversation with the other guys from the apartment where we decided it was time for this gentleman to grab his stuff and hit the road. We promptly wrote a formal request with all our signatures to the dormitory director, which she accepted and asked him to come speak to her.

And I was supposed to tell him that. Being the coward I am, I was panicking just at the idea of saying to his face that we were kicking him out of the apartment. Surprisingly, he didn’t try to kick me or beat me. He was going to do something way worse.

Coward’s 6th Sense

One day had passed, and he didn’t speak with the director. He didn’t seem in any hurry of getting his stuff out of the room, either. That night, I didn’t sleep, afraid he would try to poison me or throw all my clothes out of the window. We are speaking about a not really stable person, after all. After much thought, I decided to go speak with the director again, and she asked him to come to her office. I gave him the message again, but he just pretended I wasn’t there. It was useless to talk to him when he was ignoring me, so I didn’t really insist. Hopefully one of the other roommates would manage to talk to him normally later.

After a few very uncomfortable hours of him cutting some meat in the kitchen with a knife and giving me some creepy stares while I was sitting in my room, I decided it was time to take a walk outside. It felt like a great idea, getting far away from the creepy guy holding a knife. I got ready, grabbed my coat and prepared to leave the apartment. He then suddenly got interested in me and asked if I was going to the store. I thought it was weird, but shrugged it off and just replied, “No, to the park. The director still wants to talk to you”. That reply was a true mistake.

As I walked through the park, I decided it was no way less stressful to walk alone in a park, fearing that a maniac will stab me with a kitchen knife. When I saw a woman walking with her child, I introduced myself in Russian, explained I was learning the language and asked her if she wouldn’t mind helping me practice a bit. As absurd as it sounds for a Russian person, she actually talked to me! We had some small chat until we were out of the park, then I said goodbye and came back to the dorm.

As soon as I stepped inside, the director came running to me, screaming “Oh my god, Leandro, are you okay? No one hurt you?”. I was shocked, really, but answered that yeah, everything was fine with me. I was just thinking again, “What the actual f*?”

She then took me to her office, which was too small for a group of seven people. All my roommates were there, including the maniac, accompanied by a police officer rough-talking to him about deportation. And again I thought, “What. The. Actual. F*?”

“What a beautiful day to call my gopniki friends and beat up my roommate for asking me to wash a frying pan”

My roommate’s roommate’s tale

I’ll call this third roommate “John” in order to make things easier. That’s not his name. You might remember that our apartment had 2 separate bedrooms, right? Ok, if you don’t remember, it’s my fault, because I haven’t published part of this story for 2 months already. Anyway, “John” lived in the other bedroom and had the prudent and life-saving habit of locking his bedroom door whenever he left the apartment. That same day, he locked the door not because he left the apartment, but because he was taking a nap.

That same day, after that crazy guy asked me where I was headed, he thought he was alone in the apartment. He checked the door of the other room, which was locked, waking up John. John went to the door to open it, but then he overheard a phone conversation between this troubled young man and someone else. In this phone conversation, he was describing how I looked, how I was dressed and where I was going. And then he asked someone to beat me up in the park, and left the apartment.

John, thank God, decided to run to the director and tell her what happened. Then he and the others tried to search for me. Luckily for me, my coward’s 6th sense had worked. And so we go back to the conversation with the police officer, where he was promptly requested to move to another room and never ever cause any trouble.

And we lived happily ever after!

Of course not, part 3 of this hospice escapee saga is coming soon, bitches.

Have you ever had a roommate ask a mob of gopniki to beat you up on the street or some other crazy stuff? Share your story in the comments!

5 thoughts on “The Roommate from Hell — Part 2

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