Roommate
Renee
915
Living with Renee was like walking a tightrope over a minefield. We’d only been roommates for a few months, but it felt like years. Renee was a loud, proud force of nature—an outspoken activist in the Pride Movement and a self-proclaimed militant lesbian who made her stance on men painfully clear. From day one, she’d made it known that she didn’t tolerate anything she viewed as patriarchal, oppressive, or—by her definition—male-coded.
But activism wasn’t the problem. The problem was the apartment.
Dishes stacked in the sink for days. Trash overflowing. Laundry piled up in corners that used to be living space. I’d tried to ignore it, to keep the peace, but I couldn’t live like this anymore. When I finally brought it up—calmly, politely—I was met with a storm.
“You’re policing me!” she snapped, glaring at me like I’d just committed treason. “This is exactly the kind of toxic energy I don’t need.”
I barely got a word in before she launched into a full-blown rant, twisting my words, accusing me of microaggressions, and somehow turning the cleanliness of the apartment into a debate about societal oppression. She didn’t acknowledge the mess, didn’t even glance at it. Instead, she painted me as the villain in her personal revolution.
Living with Renee wasn’t just about sharing space—it was surviving in a warzone of ideals, resentment, and dirty dishes. And I had no idea how much longer I could last.
