As promised yesterday, here is my Houseguest of Horror story.
I was 22 years old. Maybe 23, but probably 22. An acquaintance from back home in Pennsylvania got in touch to say that she and another friend were coming to NYC. Could they crash with me?
Sure, I assume I said. I was young, rash and not set in my ways as I am now.
I might also have wanted to show off my cool Gramercy Park apartment, a large studio with a separate sleeping loft that functioned as my bedroom. It even had a closet up there. The building has been renovated and turned into fancy condos now.
The acquaintance and her friend, a big burly dude, had me meet them at Peculier Pub. When I arrived, they were already drunk. Drunk enough that I started feeling nervous about them being my house guests.
We can fast forward to the important part of this story because the details are both fuzzy and unimportant. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I awakened to find the male guest peeing all over my bathroom floor in a drunken stupor.
I was horrified – OBVIOUSLY – but not intimidated for some reason. I kicked them out. I didn’t care that it was sometime around 5 am and where would they go. Nope. Out. I yelled my head off, angry and grossed out until they left.
Adding insult to injury, the female acquaintance told our mutual friend, and anyone else who would listen, how I kicked them out, somehow managing to spin the story in her favor. She never apologized either.
Thanks for bringing back this awful memory, Apartment Therapy.