Conundrum de la Casa

After sacando la cuenta, I recently realized that I have lived with 30 different people since the beginning of college. THIRTY PEOPLE, people. And to be frank, not many of them have been gems (917 doesn't count, i <3 you all). Most of them have been more akin to that irritating, son-of-a-bitch pebble that gets stuck in your sandals. So-- if you were in my chacos, wouldn't you want to live alone in peace and solitude-- devoid of a spur-of-the-moment freakshow parading into your house at 2:37AM??

Well, guess what.

The only time I'll ever live alone is, um, never. For those of you who don't know, Santiago is a real estate heaven- a plethora of beautiful, manicured new apartments with cute little balconies and blah blah blah-- but only if you have the buttload of $$$ to toss away on rent, "gastos comunes," and utilitizzles. Crap. And since I make in a month here (working full time and wearing a suit) what I made in a week working at a restaurant in FoCO, my all-too-desired dream of "having my own place" is washed down the dirtyass disease-ridden Mapocho River.

So where does that leave me?

It leaves me in my current apartment which, itself alone, is quite lovely (an ideal manifestation of the aforementioned cute apts) but is accompanied by some pretty bulging, more-annoying-than-a-strobing-fluorescent-light baggage. Basically, I live with the human equivalent of the evil step-sisters from Cinderella, if you add Real World drama, a drill sergeant's lungs multiplied by 29087356, and the compulsion of an OCD patient on adderol.



Exhibit #1:
-Saturday night, I had my bf (LL), Tomás, and Matt over for dinner which was a miracle in itself cuz the only food of mine you'll find is eggs, oregano, Kahlua, and apricot marmalade. So we ate, chatted, and left to go to a cumpleaños. Party, sleep, spend the whole day being a sloth at LL's house. Arrive around 9:00pm to my house, get on skype and start blabbin' with my dad. Ali-- evil sister #1, barges (no knock, nada) into my room and starts screaming at me in Spanish. I calmly take my headphones off (dad still on the line), say a big F YOU with my eyeballs, and ask her what could possibly be the problem. Convo as follows:

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Ali: WHAT- SO YOU'RE JUST NOT GOING TO CLEAN THE KITCHEN AFTER YOU MADE DINNER AND HAD PEOPLE OVER?????

Brenna: Um, I did all the dishes last night. Sorry, I just got home and Christina (former roommate) is studying on the table and I don't wanna bother her so I'll just put the tablecloth away later.

Ali: ARE YOU SERIOUS? YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE THE HOUSE A GIANT MESS LIKE THIS. THIS IS MY HOUSE AND I WANT IT CLEAN. AND THE TABLECLOTH IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON THE TABLE. OH- AND I WAS SOOOOO STARVING TODAY AT LUNCH BECAUSE YOU LEFT A POT (tried to make flan and burned the shit outta the pot.. never doin' that again...) IN THE SINK AND I COULDN'T EAT LUNCH. I WAS SO HUNGRY.

Brenna: Uh- sorry? (you f-ing unresourceful child) I'll do it when I'm done talking to my dad.

Dad (via skype): What's this girl's problem?? Need me to kick some ass when I come visit you??

30 seconds later... Barges into my room again...

Ali: YOU BROKE THESE TWO SPOONS. WHAT YOU JUST THINK YOU CAN BREAK STUFF AND NOT DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. YOU NEED TO BUY NEW ONES.

Brenna: Ali, those were already broken, I only used them because they were the only ones we have.

Ali: WHATEVER.... WHAT?? DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT. IT'S NOT LIKE I'M ASKING A LOT OF YOU... (at this point I tuned out and only heard the words, shutupyouoldfatbitch, over and over in my head).
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Exhibit #2:
Along the same lines. Had literally just walked in the door from a week with my parents who came to visit me (u rule m&d), had just dropped them off at the airport knowing that I'm probably not going to see them for at least another year (cue breaking heart). Was feeling, eh, overwhelmed, depressed, emo... And psycho Ali runs into my room and starts yelling about me about some pasta (leftovers from Exhibit #1) that was growing mold. I burst into tears and basically la mandé a la very worst places possible. I LOATHE HER. LOATHE. HERRrrrr. (Did I mention that she writes her NAME on each INDIVIDUAL EGG that she puts in the fridge??? Psycho bitch).

Exhibit #3:
She and her sister, Val, were born missing the vital gene that give a person the capacity to speak at a decent decibel level. No- they were born with THE SCREAM GENE. They wake up screaming, go to bed (at 1:30am) screaming, scream to one another via the giant cement wall that separates them, scream when having a simple, normal gene-d person conversation (#1, #2), etc. Hence my enormous lack of sleep, droopy eyes, inability to speak Spanish (very hard on a continuous string of 5 hours of sleep), and periodically surly attitude. The cackling of Ali's laugh burns a hole in my brain every time my little dwarf ears are pierced by it.

These girls would make Janice Dickinson/Tyra Banks/Lindsay Lohan look sane. Hence, finalmente, my overwhelming urge to move out. But here's the catch: (1) my apartment is within walking distance to my work, (2) near the metro (cuz duh, like I have a car), and (3) is in a "safe" neighborhood.

//Should I just deal with the bullshit?
//Should I move out to my 31st roommate's house?
//Should I inject tranquilizers into their yogurt?
//Should I just say, F it, and secretly move into the hotel where I work?
//What would youuuu do??? HELP!!