I must preface this with, “I definitely do not think that I am perfect or without my annoying habits and personality defects, but...”
This is the second installation to “The Habits of a Pig.” I cannot tolerate Dunce. We’re a little over a month until our tenancy agreement expires, finally. We really should have agreed to the original 12 month contract instead of extending it a further 6 months. It’s quite difficult for me to verbalize exactly why I despise him so much. In particular instances I don’t mind him (usually when I’m drunk – this became clear to me when I stopped drinking excessively in the first three months of my arrival). Those are few.
What just happened 2 minutes ago, serves to drive a nail in the coffin. Hearing my unhygienic acne-covered flatmate’s orgasm in the next wafer-thin walled room has just put me off sex for life. Not because I’m put off by sex, but because any association of sex with him induces such an intense nauseousness that I’m surprised that I haven’t indeed thrown up on myself. Since Thabo has been away, Muppet, it appears, has moved in. Shouldn’t Dunce show a little respect and keep the ‘good’ vibe of the household? Thabo suggests we move into the Dorchester until our lease is up.
It began with Dunce's excessive drinking, then the denial, the need to bring alcohol into every occasion, and not in a social manner, but to get trolleyed with the slightest excuse of a reason. What better way to ruin a dinner, than to have him scull glasses of wine that deserve to be appreciated and savoured, bottle after bottle. And, we carry the cost of it.
For someone who devours as many novels as he drinks bottles, one would think that his repertoire of adjectives would include more than just, “really,” and, “nice.”
“How was dinner?” 
“Yeah, it was really, really nice,” as if the extra ‘really’ will convey the passion of his statement and the breadth of his gustatory experience. “We went to the -insert venue-, you know, on -insert street name- by the corner of -insert street name-, near -insert street name-. You should go, it’s really nice.” Thank you for the very comprehensive review. Your directions, as detailed as they are, perhaps don’t do the quality of the food or service justice, nor do I know any more about your night than before you started talking. I also wish to remind you that we’ve had the exact conversation on five separate occasions in the last month.
Korsakoff's Syndrome: Decreased ability to acquire new memories due to thiamine deficiency (eg. in alcoholics). He will confabulate to fill in the gaps in his memory.
“How was your weekend away in -insert city-?”
“It was really, really nice. We had a really, really nice time.” Read here, that really, really nice in the context of time means “the case was strong” or “huge” – both references to his need of alcohol consumption, or the amount consumed.
The drunkeness brings out his inane booming laughter at anybody’s half-attempt at a joke. His stories are repeatedly, and frankly, after two years, drivel and shit-filled with nothing but waste and of no interesting value. I have to go to my room, because the boredom from listening to him makes me want to scream, “Why don’t you just fucking shut up?” And I would ask it really, really nicely.
I thought Dunce was having me on. During dinner preparations one night he asked, “Why do you and Thabo season your steak?” What on Earth does he expect the answer to be? And he’ll ask equally stupid questions at random moments. How is it possible for a professional who earns a living by giving advice be so thicky, thick, thick? I live in crazy wonder at his inability to grasp simple concepts pertaining to life.
I don’t trust any of Dunce’s reviews:
Food – see above. Additionally, he is someone who adds about 1 tablespoon of salt/plate. God must have transposed his anus for his mouth.
Wine – see above. Every drop is a nice drop according to Dunce’s pickled tongue. He would think that vinegar served from a wine bottle was an excellent choice.
Movies, books, music – Why doesn’t he just come out and admit that he’s a 50 year old fat chic, gay man? I shouldn’t make judgements on someone else’s tastes. We don’t share any interests.
In conversation, there is always shows an initial interest, followed by a rapid turning of the conversation back to him. He doesn’t really show genuine interest, only makes the right noises (I hate that; saying what he perceives to be the right thing or what he should say. I want to slam him for that, catch him out and it’s such an issue for me now, that I’ve stopped listening to him) for a moment before redirecting the topic of conversation back to his own limited experience.
I hate that he’ll express an opinion and as soon as it is opposed, he’ll change his own to conform. I don’t care that one should have an alternative view but to be so lacking in strength of character and value in oneself, to be so soft-cocked and spineless…to sell yourself out like that…I despise that more than anything else.
Everyone sees him as a harmless, funny, can’t do anything wrong, not a bad bone in his body kind of guy. Which leaves me with the only possible conclusion, that I'm a very bad person. The truth, however, is that if we didn't live together I wouldn't know these other things about him and I'd think exactly the same as everyone else, and I wouldn't have written all these nasty things. If it weren't for the current circumstances, I'd actually enjoy his company. Going our separate ways will be a good change for the friendship.
While eating breakfast this morning, I cried. I woke up inexplicably sad, or more accurately, emotionally labile (it was not PMT). It came from nowhere and hit me like a ton of bricks. I cried at sad things, I cried at funny things, I cried at the MTV-flux best music video clips, and the British Red Cross appeal ads. Every other band is a derivative of Radiohead. Just that idea seemed so momentous that I felt choked up. And why is Ben Stiller in P. Diddy's video clip? This made me cry. It was as if every hint of emotion was amplified a million times and manifested itself as my tears.
