As I write this blog I usually listen to a music group of my choosing. Tonight I had planned to play the Smashing Pumpkins, but instead I’m stuck tolerating the noise blaring from my housemate’s room next door. If I had the guts and truly acted like the man I imagine myself to be, I should politely knock on his door — or, in a darker mood, kick it in — and tell him to turn the volume down. This is an ongoing saga. Mostly it’s talkback radio segments that bleed through, sandwiched between the inane chatter of the DJ. He even keeps a radio in the shower and cranks it to full volume every time he spends one of his hour-long showers.
It’s not even the music itself that bothers me so much. It’s the fact he shows such utter disregard for his housemates. He even leaves his doors wide open as if that makes his behavior acceptable. So inconsiderate and plainly rude. I will have my revenge, though - I’ll stay up later than him, and as soon as he finally tires I’ll blast some death metal as loud as my little laptop speakers can manage. He won’t have any grounds to complain, and in a way I almost hope he comes knocking on my door so I can look him in the eye and say, “Too bad, buddy.”
It’s not just the music. This chap has the gall to tell me, for the second time since I moved in, that I’m not pulling my weight and that I’m not keeping the kitchen clean. It might sound trivial, but I do everything I can to keep that kitchen immaculate. Nothing is out of place: the dishes are always done, the benches are spotless, the rubbish is taken out without fail, and I go to great lengths to meet his exacting standards. Today this little man picked on me for a few minutes. That’s far longer than he’s ever spent sitting down to have a “friendly” chat with me. I moved out of my parents’ house some time ago, and now it feels like I’m back under their rule again. I’m walking on eggshells constantly; everything has to be just so. The owner of the house is another story:
I really like him. He’s always friendly and respectful and generally leaves me to myself, which is exactly what I want in a housemate. The only very small issue I have with him is the vaping situation. When I first moved in I was toking in my room but he made it clear I wasn’t to do this, which was fair enough, and it’s something I haven’t done since — I moved it outside. I used the back patio. Yesterday I was told that there was to be no vaping on the property whatsoever. He suggested I could go out the front to the road or do it in my car. His reasoning for this was that it went against his religion, which surprised me — what God is he following? I’d like to know, because I’m pretty sure no faith has an explicit verse about vaping. It’s just turned midnight and I’ve had a couple of beers in my room; I couldn’t imagine what he’d say if he came across these. Between that, my music, my tattoos and my clothing choices, he must think I’m the antichrist or some equivalent figure in his religion. Who knows, he may be a Christian like myself, or maybe he follows some other beliefs — either way, I wish he’d be a bit clearer about where the boundaries come from and how flexible they are.
My problem is that I hate confrontation. I don’t do well at sticking up for myself, and I tend to avoid conflict whenever possible. I’m too chill and easygoing for that kind of nonsense. When I’m angry about a situation and I know I’m right, I let it stew; all the points I want to make race through my mind, but when it comes time to perform I don’t use any of those tools. I retreat. That only leaves me more frustrated. My usual way of dealing with confrontation is to say a few basic points of my argument and then exit the room. I leave it to the other person to reach out the next day. I hate the awkwardness of ignoring someone and not talking, but that’s how I tend to handle things.