My previous semester here at U of M, was full of anxiety attacks, sleepless nights and missed deadlines. Nonetheless, nobody contributed more to my frustration than my now ex-roommate (who, for the sake of the privacy which she doesn’t deserve, will be renamed)…Puerco. Feel free to Google the meaning of that.
Puerco was everything wrong with humanity. She was an ignorant, sleep-talking, sleep-farting, belching, gut-scratching, unhealthy, anti-social ball of greasy awkwardness. I’d be able to identify her ass crack in a police line-up from six miles away.
Backstory = Last semester, I roomed directly with Puerco and the other room in our suite was occupied by an RA (who I will refer to as “Teletubbie”). They had met long before I entered the equation and together they joined forces to make my life unbearable.
The first of my troubles with Puerco began on the first day of moving in – when she mentioned that her boyfriend was African. I was excited to here that, as I am Nigerian. But when I asked where exactly he came from within Africa, she shrugged and said: “I dunno, what do you mean?” I thought I said the question wrong and repeated myself. “What country inside of Africa is your boyfriend (*of two yearsssss!*) from? Is he Kenyan, Egyptian, Nigerian, Gambian?” Ugandan? Lesbian? Are you even listening? She then proceeded to make a confused “did I leave the stove on” face, before utter the words: “Wait…I thought Africa was a country, right?”
I can’t remember exactly how long it took me to realize I did not answer the question and chose instead to stare at her blankly. I quickly changed the subject.
“So… This guy-what’s he look like? Tall? Round? Freckles? Braids?”
Then she laughed before dropping another bomb. “What? LOL. African guys don’t wear braids.” A CONTINENT of roughly 1.1 billion people has not one man with braids. (Even if Denrele Edun doesn’t technically count, there are entire tribes that wear nothing *but* braids).
That was just the first day. As time passed, I realized just how filthy she was. Leftover chicken grease growing eyes and ears in unwashed skillets. Pulled out braided extensions found in every nook and cranny of the place. Our entrance was completely blocked by black trash bags full of pop bottles that she “never got around” to recycling. A fan of white noise, Puerco would leave the TV (which only faced my bed) on at night. I’d wake up at 6:14 am to explosions coming from Adult Swim’s latest episode of Superjail. (That show is fucking trippy.) Then, there was the sleep activity. Have you ever heard of someone who snored, farted, burped, moaned and TALKED in their sleep? Like what type of wet dream are you having that making you do all this simultaneously? She’d come in from work and the room would instantly be filled with the scent of spoiled eggs when she’d shed her Air Jordans. Instead of tossing those moldy shoes, she’d drench them (and me) in Victoria Secret body mist.
In my mother’s words: The straw that broke the camel’s back was when I had family over and she proved to be the most rude, ignorant and shameful prick on the face of the planet (besides Trump). My mom and brother drove hours to come see me and they brought our native, Nigerian foods. (Jellof rice, fried beef, yam porridge, plantains.) It was absolutely heavenly…until Puerco decided to be disrespectful.
Immediately after walking in on us eating in the living room and speaking our native language, she made a disgusted face, ran to her room, and locked her door. She didn’t even bother saying hello. After my family left, she immediately rushed out of her room, armed with Febreeze and started running around the suite like the happiest lesbian at PRIDE. I had to tell her to at least wait until I had packed up the leftovers. I’d be damned if that shit got in my food. As I opened up the yam porridge that I didn’t get a chance to try, she came up behind me and went: “What is that??” – in the most disgusted voice possible. I said “Ya see. I’d tell you, but you have that look on your face.” Like, you can @me bitch.
There one thing *some* Americans do that makes me angry. They make you feel sorry for eating any other food that is not approved by them. If I’m not having McDonald’s or KFC, apparently the only place that I can feel comfortable eating is in a rain forest somewhere – away from civilization’s nasal sensitivity. If you don’t like a certain cultures food. Fine. More for me! But don’t go out of your way to passive-aggressively indicate that you’re not a fan. We get it, pendeja.
Teletubbie was no better, as an RA. What a way to police others and not police yourself. For months I couldn’t use the fridge because Puerco and Teletubbie had occupied 98% of the space (with food that was slowly morphing into a science project). They both kept the suite freezing because everything that require the slightest amount of activity made those two walruses sweat bullets. So I left this semester. Her new year’s resolution should be to miraculously avoid catching vaginitis. I fucking need therapy after #PuercoGate2015
FEROCIOUSLY x NICE 