It Must Be Nice To Be Evil

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First off: I despise my roommate. He's an ill-mannered drunken slob, and if he dropped dead of a wasting disease I doubt I'd shed a tear.

I was back home this weekend, working on something that necessitates being on the far side of the fascist uber-firewall that this so-called school has inflicted on me, and during my abscence the apartment was, to engage in a rather heinous act of understatement, trashed. Apparently there was quite a bit of partying going on this weekend.

I say 'partying' rather than the more simple 'partying' because in this context 'partying' means unwanted drunken goings-on rather than the more traditional definition concerning the particple form of enjoyable festivities.

Anyway, apparently our resident whomever (R.A.? R.M.? Something...) had words with HellRoommate. I had a brief discussion with The Man today, and it was made quite clear in a distinctly subtextual fashion that well-phrased testimony could start us all down the path to removing the unwanted element.

Sounds great, right?

Thing is, I'd feel guilty. There's no rational reason for guilt; he clearly has it ('it' meaning eviction and several other inconveniently complex forms of karma) coming. He's not the sort of... 'individual'... for whom I should feel compassion.

It must be nice to be evil. Lex Luthor would've had this bum out of here months ago. Sigh.

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