This story was submitted to Buttertongue. That’s right, doll. You can submit to us.
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It’s a tale as old as Tinder: boy meets girl, boy and girl hook up, girl friendzones boy because, despite the great sex, the conversation never quite ventures beyond “how was your day?” and “what’s your favourite colour?”. Fast forward a few weeks, and this same boy rocks up at my place, drunk as a skunk, and on a mission to test my patience (and my carpet’s absorbency).
I was in the middle of an assignment when I got the call. My deadline was looming, and the last thing I needed was a beer-soaked distraction. Against my better judgment, as the absolute Mother Theresa I am, I went downstairs to retrieve him, with no intention of anything more than delivering a glass of water and possibly a lecture on the virtues of moderation. He lived around the corner, so I didn’t bother ordering an Uber. Instead, I led him upstairs to my 24-square-metre studio apartment, the kind of shoebox that somehow warranted a bond payment of $1,850. Yes, I know, don’t remind me.
Once inside, he launched into a drunken monologue about how I never took him seriously, which was true. It wasn’t the alcohol talking—it was the truth talking through a haze of Great Northern Beer. I eventually tuned him out and dozed off on my couch, with him sprawled across my bed.
Sometime around 2 a.m., I woke to a peculiar sound, like my shower was leaking. Now, in a room the size of a generous walk-in wardrobe, anything out of the ordinary is an instant red flag. I looked up to find the man we shall not name, sitting on the side of my bed stripped down and letting loose on my carpet. Yep, full stream. My initial reaction was shock—had I fallen asleep and woken up in an alternate reality? He, however, seemed perfectly content. It wasn’t until I quickly snapped his name that he then stumbled to the actual toilet, finished the job, and then, as if nothing had happened, climbed back into my bed. Naked.
I tried to wake him up, but it was like shaking a bag of wet cement. With my bond at risk, I did the unthinkable: I mopped up his piss, my brain desperately trying to reconcile the absurdity of the situation. I paced the room, stewing in disbelief and the faint scent of urine. It was nearly 3 a.m., and I had a meeting at 7:30 a.m. There would be no sleep for me…but plenty for him.
When morning came, four hours later, I made as much noise as humanly possible while getting ready, but he remained dead to the world. The sheer audacity of it all, he was sleeping peacefully, as if he hadn’t just baptised my carpet. Finally, I slammed my cupboard door, jolting him awake. My parting words? “If you need to piss, use my toilet, not my carpet. Grab your things and leave.”
And before you ask, yes, I blocked him on everything while scrubbing his bodily fluids out of my floor. It was the least he deserved. The only stain left behind was on my faith in Tinder hookups—and perhaps a faint shadow on my carpet.
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