Don’t live with girls next year
Sharing a flat with 10 other girls is supposed to be the dream.
When we’re not busy keeping the kitchen tidy and the toilet smelling as fresh as a field of geraniums, we’re delivering hot cups of chai fennel and rose tea to each other’s rooms as we coo over pictures of pygmy hedgehogs in baking trays.
But it’s all a big conspiracy. The truth is, living with girls is worse than living with boys.
It’s true that boys can’t be arsed to cook, wash up, flush the toilet or do anything else generally useful. But at least they’re not ashamed to admit it.
Girls are stubborn – they’re all talk. For months before the big move, they’ll harp on about how they can’t wait to free from themselves from that hellish halls flat plagued by the cooties of their dirty male housemates.
No more washing up left there for days, they’ll say. Goodbye over-flowing bins, they’ll preach. Let’s make a cleaning rota, they’ll chirp.
Yet really, when it comes down to it, we really just can’t be fucked.
The result? A tin of beans left in the fridge for two months because they “can’t manage” a whole one and an overflowing sink of dirty water cause that plate “needs to soak” for a few days anyway.
That tea doesn’t seem too appealing with a dash of mould, and the milk has turned into cheese.
It’s like our meticulousness has become our downfall. Reckless boys wouldn’t eat just half a tin of anything. They don’t know what soaking is – it’s too thorough.
Just look at all these minging pictures.
Maybe the bathroom will be better?
No, it’s grim in there too. There’s more hair on the walls than on the head of a small child. And it’s quite hard to enjoy a shower when you’re trying so hard to avoid the hair on the walls and the eight razors on the floor.
Some girls still haven’t quite grasped the concept of the flush yet either. Bless them.
Then there’s periods. There I said it.
We don’t cry in harmony over a king size bar of dairy milk as we watch MIC and rub each other’s tummies.
Instead you can expect 10 moody bitches moaning about each other, to each other, for five days a month.
At least you can tell boys to shut up. Snap at a female friend on the blob and they’ll cry. For ages.
Excuse the stereotyping, but perhaps the pressure of being renowned as the cleaner, more organised sex is what’s making us so disgusting.
Maybe we’re “forgetting” to flush that stinker down the loo in revenge.
Standing by as our slimy hair clogs the entire plughole could be our way of lashing out.
Who knows. But what I do know is, whether you’re living with boys or girls next year, you’re pretty much fucked either way.