Roommate Horror Stories: My Roommate's Dirty Lifestyle Soon Produced a Bio-hazard

A sour, stale stench haunted our Boston kitchen for weeks, creeping into every corner like an uninvited guest. I scoured the fridge, emptied the trash, and checked the stove, but nothing explained the odour. Growing frantic, I rummaged through cabinets and under the sink, my hands gloved, expecting a hidden spill. Desperate, I opened the microwave, and a wave of rancid air hit me. Inside was a plate of spaghetti, crusted with green mould, the sauce a petrified mess that looked like a science experiment gone wrong. I gagged, stumbling back, my stomach churning. I flung open the window and stepped outside, gulping fresh air to steady myself, the chill of the Boston evening a relief against my nausea.

My roommate, Lena, a stressed nurse, came home later, her scrubs wrinkled from a long shift. I confronted her in the kitchen, the microwave door still ajar. “Lena, what’s with the biohazard in there?” I asked, pointing to the offending plate. She winced, rubbing her eyes. “Oh, I forgot about that, long shifts,” she mumbled. I understood exhaustion, my sister being a paramedic, but this wasn’t a sock left in the dryer. This was a health hazard in our shared appliance. “Clean it now,” I said, my voice firm. She shrugged, muttering, “You opened it,” and shuffled to her room, leaving me stunned by her nonchalance.

I couldn’t let it slide. The smell lingered, seeping into my clothes, my dreams, and my every meal. I tried reasoning again, but Lena was immovable, her shifts an excuse for every mess. Reluctantly, I scrubbed the microwave myself, wearing gloves and a mask, the bleach fumes burning my nose as I scoured every inch. It was horrific, but I couldn’t live with the stench. I told Lena to shape up or leave; my patience had worn thin. She ignored me, leaving coffee grounds on the counter and dishes in the sink, as if my ultimatum was a suggestion. Fed up, I had no other choice but to call my landlord, who was also a close family friend who owned the building. I explained the situation, emphasizing the health risk. He acted fast, serving Lena an eviction notice within days.

Lena moved out, her belongings packed in a hurry, leaving behind a faint whiff of her carelessness. I aired the apartment for weeks, windows open despite the winter chill, until the kitchen smelled of nothing but clean air. The microwave gleamed, a testament to my efforts, but the memory of that mould lingered, a reminder to never trust a dirty roommate who shrugs off a biohazard. My new place, solo and spotless, was worth every second of that ordeal.