…that I’m getting fat. I’m resigning myself to eating nothing but pizza until August, since it’s a) relatively cheap; and b) means I don’t have to go into the kitchen, where the Roommate seems to have set up camp.

The Roommate’s cough has not improved a bit. And he blows his nose loud enough that it literally makes me, in the room farthest from him, jump.

GB just came in here a minute ago to ask, really, who hangs out in the kitchen? It seems like an odd choice of rooms to hang out in, but apparently it suits the Roommate fine.

The thing is: he’s a nice guy. He’s laid back. He doesn’t freak out when the cats pee on his bed. He doesn’t freak out when GB and I leave wine glasses on the coffee table for days. He pays the rent and utilities. But holy hell, he takes up a disproportionately large amount of space. And no power on this earth will compel me to enter the kitchen when he’s in it.

On the bright side, my pizza should be here shortly.

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