EatBeast Roommate Outlines Its Terms Good afternoon shitlords, shitladies, and lurking fatties who will never find love!  I'm a pretty small person. I'm pretty resilient (distance runner) but I'm not very hefty or intimidating. Still, my biggest fears are essentially concepts, rather than tangible things. For example, I'm absolutely terrified of injuries preventing me from running and accidents that could hurt my family members. I'm not scared of swimming pools or dark closets. I don't fear objects because, usually, they don't pose immediate threats to me unless I'm drunk or something (I'll get to the intoxication/space heater incident in another Fattie Flashback installment).  Today, an object instilled great feelings of terror and dismay into my soul.  The object was, specifically, a CostCo sized bin of French Onion Dip, lip open and on the countertop.  "Fuuuuuck," I hummed to myself as I cast off my coat and tugged off my thin-calved shitlady boots. The migration of the French Onion Dip from the fridge meant that Fatty had been awakened and was, likely, waiting for me to discuss terms to aid in keeping its TRIGGERS to a minimum.  Dammit.  "So," it says to me as I fully enter the room. "What should we talk about?"  I suppress the urge to suggest portion control or Kate Moss' physique or mad cow disease and instead say, "Let's just make an outline of some basic rules for each of us to follow so we have a peaceful remaining six months." "You just really hurt me," it moos again. Fuck, I think to myself. I was in no mood to repeat our tiny conversation from last night. "You have no idea what it's like to be me, to be in my shoes!"  Well, of course not! I tap my collarbone absentmindedly, as I do to subtly trigger fatties on a daily basis. It continues, "It was so scary, when I tried to kill myself!"  It waits for my eyes to melt, my body to explode with shame upon realizing I nearly robbed the world of its most special snowflake. Instead, I say the most cunty, condescending sentence my brain would formulate: "Wow. I'm sure those must've been very uncomfortable emotions for you."  I nods its head and not one, not two, but THREE rolls jiggle. "Ok," I say, "let's make some agreements."  Fatty lists its terms. It wants cleanliness, no messes. Fine by my, I figure, because I'm not the one whose dishes get actually moldy. I figure it'll just see all its own messes and trigger itself to death, which might be an entirely new occurrence in the natural world. It has several more requests, so specific about pieces of furniture only itself uses, so I just chalk the specifics up to severe mental retardation and I call it a day; "So, are we good here?"  "You just have no idea how much you hurt me."  "We're good here," I conclude, and I skip out the door. As I head up the hill to the coffee shop where I was to meet my boyfriend, I run through its list of requests. Not once, I realize, were my healthy habits and its resulting triggers brought up. I thought FOR SURE it wouldn't want to prancing around in a leotard, or talking to my friends about healthy recipes. But no, none of those got mentioned.  You know what this means?  I have to try harder.  I'll keep you guys updated!