Flatmates are the devil

My flatmates suck.

I live in student accommodation, and until recently, it was a happy experience. I lived with people I liked, and we had fun, studied occasionally, procrastinated often and hung a pair of plastic breasts from the laundry door.

But then, my flatmates left. And I got new ones.

The mildly racist manager of the complex assured me he would give me some nice Australian flatmates, but instead, I got a Pornstar and Fatty.

Fatty doesn't bother me too much. She can be a little too exuberant at times, but she's hardly ever home, which is probably the best quality a sub-par flatmate can have.

Pornstar... I used to quite like Pornstar. I probably still do. We both like the same obscure television programmes, so I was optimistic I had found my soulmate.

But then the sex started. It is loud. And it is often.

I work. I am in my final year of university. Sure, it's a journalism degree, and a retarded monkey could get distinctions in most of my courses, but it's the principle of the thing. I don't appreciate being woken up at 1am by screaming orgasms in the next room. It's a bit icky.

And it's just not screaming, though there is a lot of that (she particularly enjoys yelling 'shit' repeatedly). I can also hear the constant slap-slap-slap and much, much queefing.

Thankfully, most nights I am able to drown it out with my vomiting.

Last night, I was awake until 2 in the morning because of the sexcapades going on next door. I reacted in a mature manner to this intrusion on my dreams. I threw a soccer ball against the wall three different times, and yelled at her to shut the fuck up.

This afternoon, I decided it was time to have the awkward 'please-stop-rooting-so-loudly' conversation that all flatmates are destined to have at some point in their relationship.

It failed.

She completely denied ever having anyone over, and even went as far as to blame any noises in the night on Fatty, who wasn't even home last night.

I admire Pornstar's guile, if nothing else.