why the friends was lying about flatmates

Keep calm

Keep calm

Can you imagine the feeling of explosion? Do you know that pain around your lower stomach? Do you know the pressure when each ‘one more minute’ gives a kick to your bladder? Do you know the feeling when cry or scream or taking a bottle seems the only option left?

And this pain is only the short-term physical feature of keeping back your first morning ‘let go’... but let’s not think of what might be.

Rather, let’s talk about flatmates; a term or concept that I haven’t encountered with for long..very long…

It’s all hip and cool to say my flatmates, especially in a city, where flatmating is not the thing of the 20 somethings, but ageless…. But I do believe that the Friends was lying about flatmates. I am so very sure…

I am living together with four people, and looking back to my pre-New York flat hunting, I am still thrilled with my choice. My landlords (well, sounds odd, since I always imagined landlords as old and nasty ) are the most amazing couple one can wish for. And since I don’t believe in accidents, moving to them was not one either – otherwise I would be missing out two entertainingly hilarious people…

But four minus two is still an other two….

The other two flatmates are two annoyingly young guy. Annoyingly, because following a certain age, everybody, who was born after 1990 is annoying. Period.

So, they, let call them James and Jonas, are hardly starting their 20s but are already making internships in the middle of the world, in New York. Their intelligence and capability is beyond expectations and talking to them is like being the ‘life for dummies’ book itself…

I can hardly (and also reluctant to) follow the number of  things they have achieved already; and Jeez, after all, they are getting paid in New York – so they certainly do something good.

Yeah, admiringly, they are amazing…..

They are amazing until the point when they enter the sacred place of the house: the bathroom.

I understand that besides our cozy rooms that is the only place that offers a venue for privacy, but guys: go to a library if you need 90 minutes meditation time.

Whoever started to artificial gossip on women taking time in the bathroom, must have never lived with anyone else but his wife – therefore, had no benchmark option whatsoever. So my dear fallacy generator, gossip initiator, let me tell you the universal truth: YOU ARE WRONG!

My Einstein-brained James and Jonas have no timer when they enter that room. I tend to believe that as they step across the doorstep, they enter to another universum, where time, space, or any other person cease to exist. Nothing, pure emptiness – just them and the white tiles…

This is the only explanation for spending 90 minutes in one room that is not bigger than 3 steps right and 3 steps back. So unless, which comes as my alternative angle, they are attempting to make an experiment as to ‘how does it feel to be in jail’, these guys have serious flatmating problems.

Let’s go back to the pain! You know the unbearable, tear-welcoming pain…. If I could see my bladder on those moments, I would imagine it turning black as the sign of dying…

So making conversation with a soon-to-be-black bladder for 90 minutes is the longest conversation one can even encounter with any of his organs….

Every step out of your room to check whether there is a hope that you won’t end up letting go in a bottle, is a loud cry for help  and every time you hear the torrential waterfall, you imagine the following picture vividly:  how you are going to grab the little Jonas, press him against the wall and tell him to stop using the bathroom for more than 20 minutes! Especially when it’s morning and especially when the toilet and shower is under one roof!

But then this fantastic plan on educating the young disseminates itself in the room, your pain is bigger now than even to consider a movement that would require your full body work.

God, you got two more minutes…and then I am going in. – screamed my bladder after 50 minutes of mature-like behavior.

Even if it’s not two minutes the time comes when the Jonas walks out as a ghost from the sacred place and I run into like a

person, who has no shame or dignity anymore….

While finally letting go of the cramp that hold together my body, I am endlessly and silently cursing….

Air ventilation! Man, air ventilation! After 90 minutes use the damn air ventilation!


2 responses to “why the friends was lying about flatmates

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