They're Still Here

Today marks two months that the Romanian Family have been living with us. I’ve given up on asking them to leave now. I’ve resigned to the fact that Anka, Stefan and Pirvu will most likely be part of our lives forever. When the time comes that we have to leave Squallyoaks and move on to a new squat, they’ll probably move with us. In fact, we’ll probably give them the best room in the house. Fuck, you know what, they can just have the house. The rest of us peons will all share a cardboard box in the back garden. Whatever makes them happy.

Anka has no shame. For two months now she’s been living in our house and eating our food and not once has she said thank you. For two months my squatmate Simon has given up his room and slept on the couch so that her and her children could have a bed. And how does she repay him? Well, at the moment Simon’s bedroom is filled with rotting food, dirty clothes, and crusty plates. In my mother’s words, “It looks like a bomb hit it.” Seriously, it smells so bad in there you can barely walk past it without holding your breath. How nice of her?!

Also, Anka refuses to send Stefan and Pirvu to school. She says she doesn’t approve of the British school system and prefers to home school her children. Okay, that’s fine. But then teach them something you fucking psycho! All the poor kids know how to do is make gross hard bred and watch daytime TV. And because they don’t go to school and Anka doesn’t work, it means they never leave the house, meaning we NEVER have a moment free of them. It’s exhausting to say the least.

I know I probably sound like a bitch, but the woman is mad. Having to deal with her every day is making me want to kill myself. And don’t get me wrong, I do feel bad for her kids. I mean, their lives are pretty fucked up. From what I have gathered from the oldest son, Stefan, they move around a lot. Since he can remember the three of them have lived in Romania, Holland, Portugal, Spain, and England—being homeless on and off. When they converse they speak in a weird amalgamation of multiple different languages. Anka and Stefan seem to be able to distinguish between them all, but I swear Pirvu doesn’t know one from the other. All of them wear clothes that look like they’ve never been washed. I’ve never know any of them to take a shower (not that anyone in this house showers, but whatever). I want to do something for them but I just don’t know what. Recently I’ve started sneakily buying the kids food, as most of the dinners Anka prepares for them look more like gross slime than actual meals. The other day I bought them both home chicken sandwiches. They ate them in the bathroom so their mom wouldn’t find out.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to kick them out onto the street, but living with that woman is driving me insane. This house isn’t big enough for fourteen people. Someone has to go. It’s us or them.

I am on the Edge

So I keep wanting to write an entry about something other than how fucking disgusting my house is. You know, just to change things up a bit. Like for example last week I got beaten up by a one legged man in a wheelchair to an audience of about thirty drag queens. That was interesting. I would have loved to tell you all about that. But just when I thought I’d found the perfect window of opportunity, someone went and left a skinned, one-eyed goats head mounted on a stick outside my room. Obviously.

I woke up this morning feeling deathly hungover. I emerged from my room to find the hideous, bald skull floating waist height in front of me. Its tongue was hanging from its mouth and a thick clear film was dripping from its chin. Unaware, I walked straight into the terrifying object, knocking it onto the floor and nearly stepping on it. Thankfully I avoided it by a few inches, instead landing in a mysterious congealed goo, which then stuck to the bottom of my foot. Gross. Still, not as utterly disgusting as it would have been to crush the hairless goat skull with my heal. No one has fessed up to who put it there, but everyone seems to find the story downright hilarious.

I’m on the edge. I can't deal with this fucking house anymore. There are fourteen of us living here at the moment. The Romanian family has gone though, which I guess is a step in the right direction. Ungrateful, rag-wearing bastards. We do have a few new house members though—all of which are non-human. Two of them are hamsters. Hannah bought them a couple weeks ago, and already one of them escaped. It’s now running free somewhere inside the house. No one can find it. God knows how it got out because it only has three legs. The newest house member, though, is Kerri's new pet, Suicide. It's a fire hydrant. She found it on the street when she was on loads of drugs and "felt a connection with it," so she brought it home. I found her in the living room petting it the next morning. When I asked her what she was doing she just looked at me with her fire-red, beady devil eyes half rolled back in her skull and growled, "Meet Suicide." The following day I threw the fire hydrant out the back window in a desperate attempt to pretend it never happened. It was back in the living room a couple hours later. Suicide is now part of all of our lives.

On a more exciting note, I took acid the first time. It was great. I can't remember much, but apparently I peed on the floor of someone's house party and then began reciting chat-up lines to a wall. Good times. It's also very sunny in London at the moment, which I think is keeping me sane. At least for now anyway.