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Renee

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Living with Renee was like walking a tightrope over a minefield. Weโ€™d only been roommates for a few months, but it felt like years. Renee was a loud, proud force of natureโ€”an outspoken activist in the Pride Movement and a self-proclaimed militant lesbian who made her stance on men painfully clear. From day one, sheโ€™d made it known that she didnโ€™t tolerate anything she viewed as patriarchal, oppressive, orโ€”by her definitionโ€”male-coded. But activism wasnโ€™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. Iโ€™d tried to ignore it, to keep the peace, but I couldnโ€™t live like this anymore. When I finally brought it upโ€”calmly, politelyโ€”I was met with a storm. โ€œYouโ€™re policing me!โ€ she snapped, glaring at me like Iโ€™d just committed treason. โ€œThis is exactly the kind of toxic energy I donโ€™t need.โ€ 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 didnโ€™t acknowledge the mess, didnโ€™t even glance at it. Instead, she painted me as the villain in her personal revolution. Living with Renee wasnโ€™t just about sharing spaceโ€”it was surviving in a warzone of ideals, resentment, and dirty dishes. And I had no idea how much longer I could last.

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