The Roommate situation is out of control.

Saturday morning GB and I decided to make breakfast, something we haven’t done in a really long time. We used to do weekend breakfasts pretty often, but what with all the roommate issues, and the dating of other people, it’s been awhile since we’ve just had breakfast at home together. The Roommate was parked at the kitchen table, as usual. GB asked if he’d move so we could have breakfast at the table, and then–because we are both unbearably, infuriatingly polite–we invited the Roommate to have a waffle. Which was okay, actually, because it was one of the few times we’ve all had a meal together. Not horribly comfortable, not horribly painful.

Yesterday, the Roommate spent the entire day parked at the kitchen table, working on his laptop. He’s been back at the kitchen table since he got home a few hours ago, and he’s not showing any signs of moving until bedtime.

Here’s why this is a problem that is going to need to be dealt with soon: He takes up an inordinate amount of physical and psychic space. The Roommate has the Worst. Cough. Ever. The guy sounds like he smokes four packs a day (he doesn’t). And he does that big honkin’ foghorn thing when he blows his nose–also constantly. And, most egregious of all, the Roommate has absolutely no sense of personal space–how much he uses, how much I need. He sits in the kitchen, and the entire kitchen becomes Roommateville.

Add to this: the Roommate spends loud, endless hours on the phone with some friend of his, to whom the Roommate is, apparently, imparting his lifetime of wisdom–not through conversations, but through eternal lectures. Because the Roommate KNOWS EVERYTHING. Especially, as it happens, about my particular field. So I spend every night listening to the Roommate pontificate into the phone about My Field while coughing, honking, and owning the kitchen.

Who hangs out in the freakin’ kitchen? GB and I both hang out in the bedrooms. Late at night I hang out in the living room, but usually after GB and the Roommate are asleep. And, I mean, that’s the living room. But it’s really hard to get through a whole evening and night without going into the kitchen.

I’m hungry. I’m parched. I’m feeling like a miserable prisoner in my kitchenless house.

And we have FOUR MORE MONTHS until the lease is up.

OK. I’m done whining for now. Advice is welcome. Advice that suggests I “just talk to the Roommate” will be politely overlooked, because if I could do that, I wouldn’t be sequestering myself in here.