The Ethics of a Flatshare
This year, I opted to live with only one person, after having lived in a house of 12 in the first year and a house of 4 in the second. In every dwelling, certain issues crop up naturally, and for the most part they're often quickly resolved, although there are some that are left to simmer, untouched, until someone upsets the proverbial pot or fucks with the oven.
The majority of time, I have no issue with my new flatmate. Bar a fight over the washing up two weeks ago, we get along well. But for the last two days I must confess, I have been plotting her demise. The reason for such a drastic move you ask? Her alarm clock.
The flatmate has one of those plug-in radio alarm clocks that doesn't require manual resetting (ie pushing a button) that a lot of alarm clocks have. It does however, have an incredibly irritating screech of a wake up call.
I think you know where this is going.
Despite the howling call of the alarm clock, my flatmate barely registers and usually just turns over, letting the wail continue until I am forced out of bed to shout at her. Whilst this sometimes has it's benefits, early start etc, it's not always the case.
For the last three nights, the flatmate has fucked off to her boyfriend's house, neglecting to switch off her alarm before she left. So, for the past three mornings including today, SUNDAY, I have been summoned out of bed by the screeching plastic beast in order to shut it up. Despite my best efforts of pressing a selection of buttons, I am unable to render the little bugger silent.
This morning, I almost managed to blank its cries out, except that it intergrated its ear splitting noise into my dream, culminating in me going from a very lovely cosy dream to a horrific nightmare where the noise was a bomb blast.
Once again, I stumbled out of bed, slammed the off button, narrowly missing the snooze - that would've been a disaster. Then I fell back into bed, exhausted in my semi-sleep state and passed out until 1pm. It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't a sunday. It wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't ill. It wouldn't be so bad if it hadn't happened for three fucking days in a row.
After much ethical/moral debating (okay, not really) I've decided that it's more than fair that if she doesn't come back tonight and deal with it herself tomorrow morning it's my hammer, not my finger, that I'm using to shut it up.
PS: it's come to my attention at dear old blogger.com has changed its format for posts and no longer has a manual setting for times posted. Some of my earlier posts may seem to have strange time posts, so in those cases, I believe its plus or minus eight hours. For this reason, someone out there sucks.
That's all the vitriol you're getting for now.
The majority of time, I have no issue with my new flatmate. Bar a fight over the washing up two weeks ago, we get along well. But for the last two days I must confess, I have been plotting her demise. The reason for such a drastic move you ask? Her alarm clock.
The flatmate has one of those plug-in radio alarm clocks that doesn't require manual resetting (ie pushing a button) that a lot of alarm clocks have. It does however, have an incredibly irritating screech of a wake up call.
I think you know where this is going.
Despite the howling call of the alarm clock, my flatmate barely registers and usually just turns over, letting the wail continue until I am forced out of bed to shout at her. Whilst this sometimes has it's benefits, early start etc, it's not always the case.
For the last three nights, the flatmate has fucked off to her boyfriend's house, neglecting to switch off her alarm before she left. So, for the past three mornings including today, SUNDAY, I have been summoned out of bed by the screeching plastic beast in order to shut it up. Despite my best efforts of pressing a selection of buttons, I am unable to render the little bugger silent.
This morning, I almost managed to blank its cries out, except that it intergrated its ear splitting noise into my dream, culminating in me going from a very lovely cosy dream to a horrific nightmare where the noise was a bomb blast.
Once again, I stumbled out of bed, slammed the off button, narrowly missing the snooze - that would've been a disaster. Then I fell back into bed, exhausted in my semi-sleep state and passed out until 1pm. It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't a sunday. It wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't ill. It wouldn't be so bad if it hadn't happened for three fucking days in a row.
After much ethical/moral debating (okay, not really) I've decided that it's more than fair that if she doesn't come back tonight and deal with it herself tomorrow morning it's my hammer, not my finger, that I'm using to shut it up.
PS: it's come to my attention at dear old blogger.com has changed its format for posts and no longer has a manual setting for times posted. Some of my earlier posts may seem to have strange time posts, so in those cases, I believe its plus or minus eight hours. For this reason, someone out there sucks.
That's all the vitriol you're getting for now.
posted by adulescent at 2:46 PM
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