Roommates, flatmates, housemates—whatever you call them—they are a threat to your sanity. We all have things that annoy others, and more importantly, ourselves. Mine are smells.
Anyone who has lived in a confined space adjacent to another person knows what I call the “ontological smell.” It’s poison. It’s the one meal, the one spice, the one smell a given person can’t seem to live without producing, which spreads like a bout of menstrual cramps on test day.
This smell is a point of definition for every family member and roommate. It’s the smell of your brother’s room, your neighbour’s dog and the guy in apartment eight who loves patchouli incense. These are the smells you will define these people by until, when you least expect it, they produce a new and even more potent one. This is the be-all and end-all of relationship breakdown. You will grow to hate the new smell and, eventually, its producer.
But there’s a way to deal with this travesty. Step one is to isolate the cause. I have located two: fried ground beef and stale marijuana. These are poison to my soul—the Osama to my twin towers, the George Dubya to my diction and syntax, the chafing to my constant masturbation.
Step two is to kill the problem (but not your roommate). Your possible routes of action:
1) Set up an elaborate system of on and off days. The roommate may only produce the repugnant odour when you are not around or are incapacitated. This requires trial runs followed by an algebraic equation that considers airflow, humidity, the amount of the offensive product being used and your current sensitivity. Then, ask your roommate to compare the time you will be away with the time the deathly smell takes to dissipate. If the latter is greater than the former, we have an offence. Remove your roommate’s liver to teach him a lesson, then brag about the amount of brine you have, the place you have to store it, and your natural, non-jaundiced skin tone. He won’t mess up again.
2) Fight fire with fire. Purchase a Dick Cheney-sized package of Ex-Lax. Self-induce diarrhea on a regular basis and make comments concerning the similarity of your movements’ smell to the offender’s scent of preference. You may suffer the initial consequences, but your roommate will learn a valuable lesson: no matter how quickly you become accustomed to an odour, the smell of another’s loosed bowel tract is vile, and if his cooking or bohemian proclivities are analogous to your smell, he will forever be unable to torture another living soul with his gluten stroganov.
Finally, my personal favourite, 3) Stop the problem at its root. Rob a hospital of scalpels, cotton gauze, anesthetic and the surgeons’ private stash of vodka (this last item is for you). While your roommate is having their late-night President’s Choice “Memories of Mango Island” chamomile tea, slip a Rohypnol in their mug. Sweet dreams. Using the local anesthetic, numb their face and remove their taste buds and olfactory apparatus. Clean up, drink the vodka and await the bliss of a roommate unable to taste anything ever again.
At first they may over-season, but your roommate will eventually succumb to the flavourless, bland diet that only cardboard enthusiasts know. And don’t feel bad. You are a kind heart fighting the war against olfactory terrorism. Best of all, if they had thoughts of starting that macrobiotic diet as their New Year’s resolution, you may be the one they secretly thank for the impetus to start.
