The Murder Room

So, some of you may have assumed by some of my previous posts (or been blatantly told by me) that I don’t always have the best luck with the social interactions.   What I do have, are numerous glorious failures, hilarious rejections and just outright insane moments.  And I feel like one of the best ways to follow up “Sorry I was gone” post is with one of the single most insane human interactions I have ever had in my life.

                Last winter, my roommate (who I will refer to as Knuckles) and I went out to a trivia night (because sometimes we like to remind ourselves how little we actually know).  We happened to run into a female acquaintance of ours that we hadn't seen in a while; we’ll call her J.  After being sufficiently reminded of how dumb we were, we all decided the best thing to do would be to go to the bar and kill some more brain cells.  After several hours of drinks, shots and 80s pop music, Knuckles and J were both wasted and I being the youngest and most responsible adult, suggested that J walk back to our apartment with us rather than trying to drive home.  Knuckles went to bed, I went to bed, J went to bed.   That is the last time anything made sense that night.

                At approximately 3:30 in the morning, I awoke to the distinct sound of someone peeing on the carpet.   You’re probably wondering how I instinctively know what someone peeing on the carpet sounds like, but that’s only because you clearly don’t have a roommate.    I jump out of bed in a panic and turn on the lights to find J, stark naked, hunched over, peeing in my closet.

                I’m not sure if anyone else has ever woken up to a scene like this, but pretty much the only reasonable reaction is to start yelling at them.  From here on out, I will try to transcribe the night’s dialogue as best I can (there was a lot of yelling from me and drunken-slurring from J).

Me: “What the fuck are you doing?!”

J: “Just using the bathroom.  It’s cool.  Bathroom…”

Me: “No! That’s my fucking closet! You’re pissing in my closet!”

At this point, J picks up the nearest thing to her, which happens to be my St. Louis Blues hoodie, and begins wiping up her piss with it.  This is probably the biggest sin you can ever commit in my house.  I absolutely lose it and scream at her, “YOU’RE MAKING EVERYTHING WORSE. STOP DOING EVERYTHING!”

                She stops dabbing at the pee, drops the hoodie and stares at me for a moment like a deer in the headlights before drunkenly scampering out of my closet and into the living room.  I follow closely behind her, terrified of what she might possibly pee on next.   As I walk into the living room, I find J now standing in front of my DVD shelf/bookcase staring.  She quickly spins around and asks me, “Where’s your religion cup?”

                Now, I admit, I’m not a terribly religious person.  So, I was not sure if this religion cup was actually a real thing or the insane construct of a woman who had just drunkenly peed on my floor.   Is it supposed to be some sort of goblet? The Holy Grail? Is it just a cup where you put your rosary and/or communion wafers? I think I accurately captured this uncertainty by responding with, “Excuse me?”

J: “Your religion cup?  Where is it?  Where do you store your religion?”

Me: “Eh…..wha?”  (I think I shrugged and uttered some other random syllables)

                Obviously dissatisfied with my lack of a religion cup, J scampered off again.  At this point, certain that I must be hallucinating, I went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and hopefully jolt myself back to reality.  This only served to confirm that I was, in fact, experiencing this in real life and that the sounds of doors crashing open in the rest of the apartment was some new problem I needed to investigate. 

                I walked out of the bathroom to find J, still completely nude, standing in my roommate’s room looking around bewildered (my roommate, unfortunately, never did wake up for any of this).   She charged out of his room to the next door and flung it open before angrily snarling at me, “Where is your murder room?”

Me: “One, what the fuck is that?  Two, what the fuck is that?”

J: “Your murder room! Where is it?  I’m gonna murder you.”

                I don’t know about anyone else, but as a general rule, I don’t enjoy guests in my house threatening to murder me, with or without a murder room (for the record, I do not have a murder room).  Despite the fact that I knew I was dealing with someone who was blacked out drunk, I was not prepared to let this murder room threat just slide past as I responded with, “You’re not gonna fuckin’ murder anyone! You need to lay down before your drunk, naked ass gets locked outside!  Go the fuck to sleep!”

                I’m a pretty intimidating guy (obviously), so that did trick and J quickly scampered away again, this time towards the kitchen.  I thought I would have a moment to try to wrap my mind around the subject, but the sound of things crashing around the kitchen quickly brought me back to reality.  As I exited the hallway into the kitchen, I was met with the sight of a naked ass, hunched over in front of the refrigerator, throwing things into the middle of the kitchen (thankfully, I’m a bachelor so my fridge only has beer, hot dogs, and condiments).

                By this point, the sheer ridiculous of the situation (and the fact that it was nearly 4 am) was wearing me down.   I wearily muttered, “What the…” and J quickly stood up and spun around.

J: “You must think you’re some kind of superhero.”

Me: “….eh?”

J: “My friend PMS is coming to town.  All she does is piss everyone off.”

Me: “I’m pretty sure she’s already here.”

                And with that, she once again scampered off, this time straight into my room to face-plant on my bed and pass out.  At this point, I was in no way willing to awaken the sleeping beast and chose to simply let her steal my bed.  I put the ketchup and mustard back in the fridge, turned off the lights and went to sleep on a couch on the complete opposite side of my apartment (because I wanted my roommate to be the first one in her sights if she woke up still wanting to drag someone to the murder room).

                The following morning, after explaining to her in detail how bat-shit crazy she was, she simply responded with, “Well, that’s weird,” and left.

                I haven’t seen her since.  I’m okay with that.

-Ryan