This letter aims to electrocute you into the shame-reality that you cannot live in the shower because your four other roommates have needs involving faucets, sinks, toilets, and that cool bar of soap with a dinosaur figurine trapped inside. However, before pouring bath salts in the wounds I hope to inflict, I must commend you on all of the benefits you reap by claiming such watery real estate as your own.
Most of your waking (and sleeping) hours are spent soaking in therapeutic bath fizzies, so you smell like the Garden of Eden. You don’t have to pay for laundry because your body is so damn clean that it actually purifies whatever it touches. You also have a thorough library of knowledge when it comes to takeout containers that float v. ones that Titanic. Your lifestyle is admittedly enviable, but when we take this bullsh*t for what it is, the rude and insensitive outweigh the culturally rich.
Here’s the thing: the place where you’re living is actually a part of the home that all roommates need to use. Your water-logged ears heard me correctly: need. All those incidents where you heard merciless pounding on your front door were not pranks or attacks on your person. In fact, those moments were desperate outcries from bursting bladders, rotting armpits, and erupting pimples seeking proper refuge and care. Whenever you close the shower curtain and escape within the bliss of bath steam and lilac soap, a casualty befalls another occupant of the house.
We are tired of waiting on pins and needles for you to leave your house. You only work a few times a week, and the remainder of your hours are spent luxuriating in the plushness of your abode. Just when we think we know your schedule, we bring full bladders to your doorstep—only to find the door locked, a lavender scent wafting into the hall, and your voice garbling the latest Adele hit. Disappointed and hurting (did you have to bring Adele into this?), we retreat to make yet another shameful request at the local Bodega.
There’s one last thing I need to add: in the area of your back that is hard for you to see or reach, two gills have sprouted. Despite the trendiness of this aquatic look, your gills have brought us to a fork in the road. It’s actually a three-pronged fork, much like Poseidon’s trident.
Our three trident options are as follows:
1) You continue living as a first-generation water troll and your roommates become well-versed in the public bathroom options within a half-mile radius.
2) We release you off the boardwalk at Coney Island during a full moon (or other maritime cliche of your choosing).
3) I contact NASA and other nerd groups to auction you for a sumptuous price that would serve as reparations for all those times I peed into candle votives, mason jars, or that pink-and-purple spacemaker I have used to store pencils since the second grade.
Looking Forward To An Early Retirement