That's SO gross. Dirty nasty toejamnails laying on the coffee table for days on end. Why not just put a little wastebasket under one of the side tables and simply put them in the trash, when you're done dude? So let me get this straight, you're afraid milk residue will make your OJ "nasty" yet you're perfectly fine with merely wiping the cargrease and grim on your pants and then eating a sandwich. Grease is ok but that badass milk residue makes you quiver? You're weird. When I lived with my ex I soon discovered he was a nose picker and not shy about it. I should have known I was headed down a bad road right then.
Uh...booze spill? That's not how I ruin towels. How about beating off? I construct elaborate dances for my farts. My wife has learned that the purpose of any touchdown celebration dance that ends with a squat is to announce a deep, bass fart. Acrobatic moves such as pirouettes and allegros are followed by high, squeaky farts. I pee in the sink. My back is routinely inspected for zits or wild hairs. I've got a perennial on my shoulder blade that I call "Old Faithful". Ready to be squeezed every six weeks, like clockwork. I pick my nose in the car every morning to and every evening from work, but all of those little bad boys go out the window. I haven't kept a secret nose garden under a chair or table in over 20 years.
I met my wife about 3 years ago. After dating for a couple of months, I started staying the night at her place pretty regularly. I lived about an hour away, and worked from home, so it was just easier for both of us if I stayed the night, and worked from her house. Slowly it went from staying the night a couple times a week to me just moving in with her. I thought of it as more of a test of the relationship than anything. My last long term relationship went to shit as soon as we moved in together, and I knew that I'd have to make sure I could live with anyone I was serious about. After living with her for around 6 months, I got rid of my apartment and moved the rest of my stuff. The worst part? The house we were living in was a 1 room, 650 square foot house that her grandpa had built. No furnace, just electric space heaters and window a/c units. The bedroom was so small, that with a queen size bed, there was no room to fully open the bathroom or bedroom doors. After a few months, we ended up taking the doors off. So, to summarize, I was living with a girl that I had known for 6 months, with no bedroom or bathroom doors. We both learned a lot about each other. After living in that house for 9 months, I bought a house nearby for us to move into. We still don't bother to close the bathroom door. I'm guilty of everything on that list, and more. She used to complain, and still does occasionally. We had to make a couple rules: 1. If we're in the shower together, I have to warn her before I pee, and not purposely pee on her feet. 2. No matter how impressive it is, I have to make sure it's fully flushed before leaving the bathroom. Streaks are ok. 3. The dogs sleep in bed with us. Everything gets blamed on them. That's about it. We got married last month, so the system is working. It helps that we're both easy-going people. Her sister and friends have just accepted that I'll burp and fart whenever I need to. They see it as a sign that I've accepted them into my life.
The notion of women "falling in" to a toilet is a total fucking mind fuck for me. How bad do you have to shit/piss that you don't look for the seat when you have to go, even in the dark? Are you holding it in so long that you just run in backwards with your pants already at your ankles? I've never had it happen with a girl but I don't care how much it would damage the relationship, I'd make a fucking video tape recording of the girl struggling to get out, endless hilarity. Focus 2: I don't think I'll ever stop drinking straight from the carton or 2 liter. I'm just as bad with dishes as any other guy. Why stack more shit up just because I wanted a couple of gulps of OJ? Peeing in the sink was something I never really got. Adam Carolla has ranted about doing it for years. I'll only do it when one, the sink isn't the kitchen sink (that's just too far), and two, the toilet would take much more energy to get to than a usable sink. For example, in my basement we have a utility sink, the closest toilet is on the ground floor, guess which one I'll use if I'm in the basement?
I just leave it down. I have good aim. Oh, the other rules I forgot: The front bedroom is her "office." It's a disaster, but it doesn't matter. I just keep the door closed, and don't say anything. The back bedroom is my room. It has all of my ammunition reloading equipment, extra ammo, gun accessories, tools, model boats and cars, Legos and other assorted toys. I'm a big kid, I need a playroom.
Because if I let go of it for a second, something shitty will magically start playing. I've been living with my girlfriend since about June. My problems are that A) I'm a minimalist. Now my place is always a cluttered mess because of all her shit and B) I have nooooooooo alone time. Something about living alone with just my dog had a nice appeal to it. Not to mention not having to brush my teeth and take a shower after every cigarette.
The annoying things that my fiance does: Passive-aggressive sighs when she doesn't like what I've done. (She's done a very good job working on this) Gets mad because I won't eat her cooking. (she's not a bad cook, I'm just basic and bland when it comes to food) Is a fucking slob. (for a very detail orientated person, she's one of the worst I've seen) Has a birthday month. And is totally serious about it. What a selfish cunt. Asks me to marry her. Is smarter than me. Got cancer. Is a better person than me. Won't let me creampie her sister, then slurp it out. Never shuts the fuck up. Is the most competitive person I've ever met. Roots for the Atlanta Braves. Leaves her goddamn hair everywhere. Seriously, I pick hair out of my newly washed underwear. Wears my goddamn clothes. The annoying things I do: Make fun of her at every and any social event. Get her son to like me more than her. Wreck her car, and refuse to apologize because "accidents happen" Call her a whore even though she's slept with 90% less people than me. (although she won't admit how many cocks she's had in her mouth. Probably because she can't count that high, and mexicans only are worth a quarter, and samoans only as a half.) Get all of her friends to like me more. Put wet towels on the bed. Reply to all of her emails with the word "delete" Told her mom to "go fuck herself" while playing poker last month. Refuse to change a toilet paper roll.
I meant that I want HER to felch it out of her sister,,,,, not me...... That was not a freudian slip, it's a grammatical error!!!!! Ahhhhhh! Fuck it. I'm gayer than George Michael and Elton John sucking off Doogie Howser in a Castro alley.
Me and the ex somehow managed to not murder each other in a one-bedroom, teeny tiny apartment. Although it was an interesting learning experience, I'm not so sure I can ever do that again. The utter lack of personal space just about killed me. If I were to ever cohabitate again, I would need my own bedroom/bathroom. Sharing might be caring, but watching him take a liquid dump scarred me for life. Annoying things he did: -Fucked up the bedsheets on a nightly basis. I've never met anyone so incapable of rolling over under the covers without WRAPPING THE FUCKING COVERS AROUND HIMSELF AS HE ROLLED. Seriously, who does that?! -Bought absolutely ridiculous items at the grocery store. He couldn't be trusted with a list....because he would make "interpretations" on what he thought the listed items were going to be used for, and would substitute items he thought were more appropriate. Example: Extra Virgin Olive Oil was on the list. He bought Crisco. "What?! They're both food lubricant, and this one is cheaper!" Um, I'm using the EVOO to make my hair shiny. I'm not about to ingest tablespoons of Crisco, so get back to the grocery store. -Every time he was drunk and wanted to pass out, he had to make a redneck sauna out of our bathroom. This meant turning the shower on to Super-Fucking-Hot, waiting until the room filled with steam, and passing out next to the toilet in my bathrobe. I'd wake up, have to pee...and sit on a toilet covered in condensation. The water will have been running for hours, I'd see his junk staring at me from the front of my silky robe as he snored loudly on the floor, and usually there was piss and/or vomit in the sink. UGH. -Bought huge blocks of cheese and ate them, standing over the sink, piece by piece. Nothing else but the cheese. -Couldn't/wouldn't rinse dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Annoying things I do (according to him): -Soak the dishes before washing them. -Use his razor to shave...um....everywhere. -Hog the remote control. -"Steal" his boxers (It's not stealing if I wash them and put them back in his drawer, but whatever) -Vacuum in parallel lines -Feed the fish "incorrectly" -Take up too much closet space
Actually, that's why I think paper towels are a worthwhile investment. If you're going to show mini me who's boss but you don't like dealing with the aftermath on wash day, a paper towel does a great job. They're both disposable and a ton sturdier than your average tissue.
But with a towel, I don't have to do any aiming. I can blast away like it's one of those shootouts on The A-Team where bullets flew everywhere but nobody hit anything. It's the difference between the eye of a needle and the broadside of a barn. FOCUS: I also have the power to lock all of the windows in the car, so I can ensure that we both enjoy my farts to the fullest.
My boyfriend and I have been together for three years, and just moved in together 3 months ago. Before that, we were both living at our respective parent's homes, so it has been a massive learning curve for each of us. My boyfriend is a mechanic, and comes home from work FILTHY. Consequently, I told him he couldn't sit on the new lounge in his work uniform because the lounge cost us a small fortune and I didn't want it ruined. He agreed and gets changed before he sits down after work. Cue to Tuesday this week, which was an unusually hot day here in Sydney. I walk into the house to see him sitting naked, on the lounge, legs spread, feet up on the coffee table, with the fan aimed right at his junk. He was too engrossed in his Playstation game to notice me staring at him, in complete and utter shock. Apparently, it's not the first time he has done it either. He then got up to reveal a nice strip of butt crack sweat on the cushion... He does the fart dancing as well.
I was in my friend's car with him and his girlfriend and he farted after eating Taco Bell for the first time in two months; we locked the windows and turned the heat on high in the middle of the summer to enjoy the full force of it. Two years later my friend is still dating that girl, she's a keeper.
I don't know why, but reading this thread has made me laugh out loud quite a bit. Maybe it's the cold meds. FOCUS: The wife and I have lived together full time for almost 2 years in a small little one-bedroom apartment. During that time, we've allowed every boundary to be crossed except for taking dumps in front of each other. Farting, peeing, belching... no problem. But we've decided that some lines you just don't cross. We honestly compliment each others domestic strengths and weaknesses very well, and we're both very laid back, so for the most part, it's the best living situation I've ever had.
I fixed that one real quick. When my fiance first moved in, she was rather passive, and made subtle hints here and there. With some stuff, I relented. I eventually put my deodorant in the "correct" drawer instead of just leaving it on the counter. When I was finished with a soda -- or more often, a beer can -- it usually went in the trash. I tried my best to hang up my towels after use and if I finished a roll of toilet paper I'd often remember to put on a new one for her future dumping convenience. The toilet seats though, were her big thing. As she graduated from subtle hints to simply demands, this became an issue. I tried explaining that if I had to put the seat down when I finished, it was only fair if she put the lid up after her use as well. Like all women, she refused to believe logic. Thusly, I hatched a plan. She left the house before I did in the morning, so after one particularly violent argument about the toilet seat (violent = she got mad I didn't put it down, so I put it down and pissed on it instead) I decided to remove the seats from all the toilets in the house. I knew she was mechanically inept, so there was no way in hell she'd be able to re-attach the seats. But just for good measure I hid them under the bed. I got home several hours after her, and she was predictably mad. Not only could she not find the seats, but she had to poop really bad. Apparently, if it were just a piss, she said she could have made it -- though not happily -- by squatting. A poop, however, required the seats. I asked her if she knew why I did this and she said yes. I asked her if she learned her lesson and she told me to go fuck myself. But, in exchange for my re-attaching the toilet seats, she agreed to never bitch about them again. It's been almost four months since the day I hid the toilet seats. She hasn't bitched once since. Win.
I've lived with two ex's. The first one and I didn't have many issues. He was notorious for throwing clean laundry in a huge pile in the closet and just sifting through it for something to wear. Huge fucking closet with nothing (but my clothes) hanging in it but the floor was covered. I bitched for a while and then just took over the laundry. He also came in to join me in the shower one morning, pulled the shower door open and asked "Baby did you SHIT? You fucking stink!" At the time, I was an overly-sensitive 20 year old bulimic and the mortification of that made me burst into tears. From then on, if I had to poop, I did it after he left for work. The second moved in with me. Well sort of. After his divorce he had moved back in with his parents and slept there only when he was working a night shift (cop) so he could sleep during the day. We went out to dinner a lot... I eventually stopped cooking because he wouldn't even load a dishwasher. He wanted dinner when he came in from work, me clean up while he had uninterrupted TV time until he got tired. At which point he would come to bed wanting to fuck... after I'd been asleep for an hour and wanted to fuck 2 hours before. On top of being lazy as hell, he kept his loaded pistol under his pillow. I asked for my key back after about two months. I wasn't his wife, his mother or his bitch. Why I'm terrible to live with: I hate doing dishes. Ones that I've just eaten off of aren't bad but ones have been sitting around trigger my gag reflex. Sharing my bed includes getting hit, kicked, covers stolen and farted on. Like dirty dishes, garbage grosses me out. I'll take it out of the can and tie the bag but I'm not going near a dumpster. Why I'm awesome to live with: I, too, pee in the shower. I know to feel for the seat in the middle of the night so the whole "put the goddamn seat down" thing isn't an issue with me. I love doing laundry. I cook quite well. I can kill any bugs I encounter without screaming like a girl. I'm handy. I have my own cordless drill & hammer and don't need or want your help. I want to fuck everyday. Preferably multiple times.
I have only lived with one guy, not even intentionally. He was supposed to stay for two weeks while his flatmates family was over. He somehow stayed for a year. He used to leave little weed stashes, everywhere, he would hide them from himself so he could find them later. He used to raid the house like the cops had been to find it again. He would get me to pluck the hairs off his shoulders and back, then whinge like a bitch when it hurt. He would, like others have said, have his mates over all the time. Including one that seemed to think I was a walking ATM and that I would give him money just because I was Shanes missus. These things sucked. But, him and his mates would thank me for cooking them breakfast weekend mornings by tidying the whole house. His moneygrabbing mate was told in no uncertain terms that I thought he was an arsehole and to get a job instead of whining at me. Shane laughed. But the best was him letting me be myself. Snoring was funny, so was farting. Crying because of religious differences with my parents was meet with a listening ear. In the end I guess things balance out.