This comes from a random writing prompt sent to me by a friend when I asked for an idea for something funny. Gotta say they were right.
Living with a roommate can be a rollercoaster ride—sometimes thrilling, sometimes terrifying, and occasionally leaving you wondering why you didn’t just opt for a solo apartment. And let’s face it—sometimes it feels like you’ve stumbled into a nightmare straight out of a Stephen King novel (or worse, if that’s even possible). My roommate situation is a bit unconventional: we’re exes. Oil and water as a couple, but as roommates? Surprisingly fantastic—most days. But when we fight, oh boy, it’s a spectacle worthy of popcorn.
Take the infamous Squatty Potty Saga. As someone dealing with physical disabilities, sitting is just the better option for me—it’s a lifesaver. The Squatty Potty itself is a source of endless frustration for him; he despises it with the fiery passion of someone who’s stubbed their toe one too many times—an experience he frequently blames on its unwelcome presence in our bathroom. I suggested that he sit too, pointing out that guys don’t need to stand; they can sit as well. This practical suggestion, however, landed like a ton of bricks.
“Right,” he said with exaggerated sarcasm, “next you’ll tell me it doubles as an ergonomic toe-stubbing device.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I replied. “Maybe I should market it as that. You’ll be the first case study.”
“And you’ll be the one paying my toe-stubbing therapy bills,” he shot back.
The volley continued, each jab escalating in ridiculousness.
“It’s not plotting against your toes, I promise—it’s not sentient. But if it were, it’d probably still be smarter than you.”
“Oh, brilliant idea, maybe we can program it to remind you to clean the bathroom!”
“Well, if you’d stop stomping around the bathroom like it’s the Olympic sprint, maybe it’d stop biting your toes.”
“You know what? Keep your tiny plastic throne. Just make sure the cat doesn’t start using it as a scratching post.”
The absurdity of our exchange left us both holding our sides from laughter, tears streaming down our faces. By the end of it, we couldn’t even look at the Squatty Potty without giggling. Despite his ongoing frustration, it remains firmly in place, much to his chagrin.
Then there’s the Tire Change Chronicles. Changing tires is his domain because my back issues make it a no-go. I’m the tire roller, tool holder, and moral support. I’m also determined to keep things fair, so I make sure to spend just as much time out there as he does. Not just with my car, but his, too. If he’s braving the cold, so am I. If he’s sweating through the heat, I’m right there alongside him—rolling tires, holding tools, and doing everything short of actually lifting those beasts.
But on one occasion, the paint marker decided to betray us spectacularly. It exploded mid-task, showering both of us in a fine mist of bright paint. I shrugged it off—it’s not like my “work on the car” clothes were strangers to a little mess. “Look at this!” I teased him. “This is what we call ‘functional fashion.’ You’re welcome.”
“Functional?!” he barked, gesturing to the streaks of paint running down his shirt. “I look like I lost a fight with a finger-painting toddler.”
“Oh, come on,” I shot back. “At least now you match the car. Think of it as team spirit.”
He narrowed his eyes, pointing to the bright streak of paint on his face. “You know what this is? Evidence. Evidence of your sabotage.”
“Sabotage? Please.” I rolled my eyes. “If I wanted to sabotage you, I’d do something way more creative than turning you into a Jackson Pollock knockoff.”
“Oh, so now you’re an art critic?” he snapped, shaking the marker at me for emphasis. “Maybe next time, you can demonstrate your creativity by not handing me a ticking time bomb!”
“I didn’t hand it to you, it’s not a bomb, and you’re the one who squeezed it like a stress ball!” I shot back, crossing my arms.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I forgot that paint markers come with instructions now. Next time, I’ll consult the user manual.”
“Good luck with that,” I retorted. “I’m sure it’ll tell you to ‘try not to explode paint all over yourself like a maniac.’”
Our argument reached peak absurdity when the neighbor strolled by, pausing just long enough to raise an eyebrow at the scene before shaking their head and chuckling. That moment was like a bucket of cold water—suddenly, we realized how ridiculous we must have looked: covered in paint, bickering like children, standing in the middle of a driveway.
“Great,” he muttered, brushing at the paint stains on his shirt. “Now we’re officially the neighborhood entertainment.”
“Well, at least we’re entertaining,” I quipped. “You should be grateful. Not everyone gets to see art and theater in one sitting.”
By the time we finished cleaning up the mess, we couldn’t stop laughing at the absurdity of it all. The paint splattered across our clothes might not have been a masterpiece, but the memory of that fight certainly was.
And let’s not forget the Lug Nut Incident. Neither of us wanted to walk ten feet to grab the magnetic parts tray, so we ended up dropping a lug nut. Really, it was the height of laziness—ten feet might as well have been a mile the way we were avoiding it. What started as a small inconvenience quickly spiraled into a comedic war of words.
“Nice job,” he said, glaring at the spot where the lug nut had vanished into the gravel. “Why don’t you roll it to me next time, Tire Roller Extraordinaire?”
“Oh sure,” I shot back. “Because you were so busy holding up the car with your bare hands. Real hero stuff.”
“Well, someone’s got to do the hard labor around here!” he huffed. “You’re too busy perfecting your lug nut-dropping technique to help.”
“Hard labor?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Do you want to trade roles? I’ll drop the lug nuts and the sarcasm if you promise to stop acting like a diva every time we drop one not two feet away!”
“Oh please,” he retorted, crouching down to search the gravel. “You’re out here for moral support at best. ‘Oh no, I’ve dropped a lug nut,’” he mimicked in an exaggerated falsetto. “Don’t worry, though! You’ve got me cheering from the sidelines!”
I crossed my arms and smirked. “Well, at least I’m not the one who dropped it like it was radioactive and refused to get the tray in the first place.”
“Oh, you mean the tray that’s so far away we’d need a search party to find it?” he shot back. “Yeah, let’s call NASA to launch a retrieval mission for that tray.”
The absurdity of our exchange had us both crouching in the dirt, bickering like a pair of kids fighting over whose turn it was to pick up the mess. That’s when the neighbor strolled by, giving us a bemused glance before shaking their head and laughing. The sound was enough to snap us out of our pettiness.
“Good to know we’re the entertainment for the neighborhood,” I muttered, standing up and brushing off my hands.
“Oh yeah,” he said, grinning despite himself. “Front-row seats to The Great Lug Nut Meltdown of the Century.”
We finally spotted the rogue lug nut a few feet away, half-buried in a pile of leaves. “There it is,” I said, pointing. “Quick, before it makes a run for it!”
“Maybe we should leash it next time,” he quipped, retrieving it with exaggerated care. “Can’t have it wandering off and starting a new life.”
By the end of it, we were laughing so hard that any semblance of efficiency was entirely forgotten. Honestly, the neighbor had every reason to laugh—we must’ve looked absolutely ridiculous.
Of course, there’s the classic Toilet Seat Battle. As a girl with a guy roommate, this one’s inevitable. It starts with the familiar sigh when I discover the seat has been left up—again.
“You know, it’s not that hard to put the seat down,” I call out from the bathroom.
“Not that hard?!” he shoots back. “Why don’t you leave it up for me once in a while?”
“Sure,” I reply, smirking as I emerge from the bathroom. “Right after you start vacuuming the ceiling for me.”
“It’s a matter of basic courtesy!” he protests. “I shouldn’t have to risk falling in every time I need to pee.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” I retort. “Such a tragic life, forced to deal with the inconvenience of putting down the seat. How do you manage?”
But nothing compares to the middle-of-the-night surprises.
Imagine this: stumbling into the bathroom at 3 a.m., still half-asleep, only to sit down on cold porcelain instead of the usual hard plastic. My yelp echoes through the apartment. “Seriously?!” I shout. “Do you want me to get frostbite?!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he mutters, clearly suppressing laughter. “Did the porcelain offend you?”
“Yes! And it’s an excellent argument for leaving the seat down!”
“Oh sure, I’ll be so careful every time you wander half-asleep into the bathroom.”
“You should be! Is it really that hard to be considerate?”
“And yet here we are, arguing about the world’s smallest inconvenience.”
“Well, if you keep this up, I’ll make it my life’s mission to leave the seat permanently down. I’ll glue it if I have to!”
“Oh, I’d love to see you explain that to the landlord!” he fires back. “You can tell them you sabotaged the toilet because of your delicate nighttime trips.”
The exchange ends, as always, without a clear winner—because no one ever wins the Toilet Seat Battle. But we both secretly know it’s not about the seat—it’s just another chapter in the saga of ridiculous arguments that make living together an adventure.
Vacuuming has become his domain, not by choice but by necessity. My back issues make it impossible for me to handle the heavy-duty vacuum without spending the next two days in bed, doped up on painkillers. So, in the spirit of fairness, I try to pitch in where I can—rolling cords, moving furniture, and offering moral support. If he’s hauling the vacuum upstairs, I’m holding the doors open. If he’s sweating it out vacuuming the living room, I’m there scooping up stray kitty litter to help. But the vacuum itself? That’s all his.
It doesn’t stop him from grumbling. “Again?” he groaned, dragging the vacuum from the closet like it weighed a thousand pounds. “This thing’s going to be the death of me.”
“Well, the alternative is me writhing in agony in bed for two days. Your choice,” I countered, crossing my arms.
“And what if we got a lighter vacuum?” I added, not missing a beat. “You wouldn’t have to use the heavy-duty one as often, and I could actually help.”
He shot me a look that said why are you doing this to me? before muttering, “Oh great, just what I need—shopping for more vacuums. Because clearly, that’s the solution to all our problems.”
“It’s better than you grumbling every week like a sitcom husband,” I quipped.
“You know what’s worse than sitcom husbands?” he shot back. “Sitcom roommates.”
“Oh, don’t start with that,” I said, smirking. “Or do you need me to write up a Craigslist ad for ‘Most Whiny Roommate Ever’? Shall I mention that you’re the one scattering litter like confetti?”
“And here I thought I was your favorite vacuum victim,” he said, pushing the vacuum with exaggerated flair. “I’m feeling so unappreciated.”
“Right,” I replied, gesturing to the cat joyfully knocking litter across the room. “You can fight for that title with him when you’re done.”
No matter how much we bicker, one thing is certain: he’ll vacuum, I’ll cheer him on, and the cat will do his best to undo it all immediately after. And somehow, it works.
The back-and-forth kept us laughing, even if he was still grumbling under his breath as he finished. I’m sure he secretly enjoys the banter—at least, that’s what I tell myself.
Then there’s the Great Thermostat Debate. We might as well have been mortal enemies in a cheesy sitcom, armed with only a thermostat and unwavering opinions on the ideal indoor temperature. I keep the thermostat at a toasty 24°C (75°F) because my joints seize up when it’s too cold. He, however, acts like anything over 21°C (70°F) is a tropical heatwave.
One day, I caught him creeping into the hallway with the stealth of a poorly trained ninja, his hand poised to lower the thermostat. “Caught you!” I shouted, making him jump.
“I’m just… uh… checking it,” he said, trying and failing to look innocent.
“Sure, and I’m just sunbathing in the living room,” I retorted.
“You know it’s like an oven in here, right? I’m about two degrees away from melting.”
“Meanwhile, I’m two degrees away from putting on thermal socks and gloves,” I shot back.
The argument spiraled into theatrics. “Oh no, better call the fire department!” he shouted, fanning himself dramatically. “We’re all gonna roast alive!”
“And I’ll call a search-and-rescue team for my frozen toes!” I snapped. “You know what? Just wear fewer layers!”
“Fewer layers?” he retorted, pointing at his T-shirt. “What, should I vacuum shirtless too, just to avoid heatstroke?”
By the end of it, we both knew we weren’t going to agree, so we settled for a compromise: I got a heated blanket, and he reserved the right to sulk whenever the thermostat edged higher than his liking.
And let’s not forget the Mystery Dish Standoff. It started innocently enough: one plate left on the counter, strategically placed just far enough from the sink to make me question why he didn’t just finish the job. “Whose plate is this?” I asked one evening.
“Yours,” he replied, without missing a beat.
“Mine? I don’t even eat on that side of the counter!”
“Well, it’s definitely not mine,” he said, with the confidence of a man convicted of countless plate-leaving crimes.
Days went by, and the plate remained—a silent battleground of petty stubbornness. He started stacking other plates on top of it to “prove a point.” I retaliated by making an elaborate show of washing every single dish except the offending stack.
Finally, one night, I caught him in the act, absentmindedly placing yet another plate on the pile. “Aha!” I shouted triumphantly. “Caught red-handed!”
He froze, plate in hand. “Fine,” he grumbled, “but I was hoping to see how tall we could get it.”
“Tall enough to reach your conscience, apparently,” I shot back.
The mystery plate was washed—by him, of course—and harmony was temporarily restored. But only temporarily.
As ridiculous as our arguments can get, they’re part of what makes living together so memorable. Honestly, I’d be more concerned if we didn’t squabble over thermostats, toilet seats, or plate pyramids. We’re both too stubborn for our own good most days, but it’s also what keeps things interesting. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours—and it’s nothing a bit of laughter (or, occasionally, glue) can’t fix. Though I will admit some of our fights can get vicious to a level that can only be hit with having your roommate as an ex. However I rather the known then the unknown nights mares that can be found.
Tell me about a funny you have had with a roommate or someone you live with, and some of the nightmares to just to keep it interesting.
Who am I? 
I would love to hear from you!