Roommate Horror Stories: My Roommate Said She’d Have a Few Friends Over, But a Few Minutes Later the Apartment Became a Club

When I interviewed Clara, she seemed like the ideal roommate, her smile radiant as she claimed, “I love having friends over, but nothing crazy.” That lie was so audacious it deserved a neon billboard over Toronto’s Yonge-Dundas Square. The first weekend in our apartment, our living room transformed into a chaotic nightclub. Bass-heavy music rattled the walls, body glitter dusted every surface, and a stranger vomited into my cherished fern, its leaves wilting under the assault. I hoped it was a one-off, a welcome bash for her new life in the city. But Thursdays, Fridays, and weekends became a blur of strobe lights, raucous laughter, and strangers mixing cocktails with my almond milk. One even used my deodorant in the bathroom, leaving it uncapped on the sink, the scent of my lavender stick mingling with their cheap cologne.

My days were already exhausting, balancing teaching grade school and waitressing at a bustling café downtown. Coming home to chaos was unbearable. One morning, wiping glitter off the kitchen counter, I confronted Clara. “The noise and mess are too much,” I said, my voice sharp. She grinned, tossing her hair. “Join us! You’re too quiet!” Her obliviousness floored me. New to Toronto, she craved friends, but her parties were a tornado, wrecking my peace. I set a firm rule: one party a month, max. She nodded, then ignored it, inviting a dozen more the next weekend, their laughter drowning out my attempts to grade papers.

I tried reasoning again, the air thick with spilled beer and cheap perfume. “Clara, I can’t live like this,” I pleaded, pointing to a sticky stain on the couch. She shrugged, unfazed, already planning her next rave. My patience snapped like a worn elastic. I gave her a week’s notice: move out, or I would. She laughed, as if I were joking, and hosted another party that night, the bass vibrating through my bedroom walls. I spent hours scouring rental listings on different platforms, even Platuni, my eyes burning from lack of sleep. Within days, I found a small studio, signed a new lease, and packed my belongings, leaving behind the fern and the chaos. Clara barely noticed, too busy dancing with strangers.

A few months later, I moved out, letting her club solo in that glitter-strewn mess. My new place was quiet, the floors free of sticky residue, and more importantly, I slept soundly for the first time in months, my fern’s memory a small price to pay for peace. This might just be the best solution for handling a noisy roommate.