It's a small, bloody world, after all

Last year, my living situation was a little tense, to say the least. One of the roommates had an ongoing problem with locking the doors. It is difficult, I'm sure, when one is intoxicated 90 percent of the time, to remember such trivial things. How does this relate to men? I'll tell you.

One evening, all of the roommates but myself had gone out for the evening. The next day I get a knock on my door. My favorite roommate was at the door, and asked me if I was okay. I looked at her funny and said of course I was. I then saw the origin of her concern. Our bathroom was covered in blood. There were drops on the floor, in the sink, and in the toilet. It looked like someone had attempted to wash themselves, and failed horribly. I then ventured downstairs.

In the middle of the dining room floor was a huge bloodstain, and hand prints on the door jambs. What the hell? After much confusion, and an eventual call to the police, we had an idea of what happened.

Some guy had apparently gotten very drunk and took it out on his arm. He then took a very bloody, very long hike to our house, more then ten blocks away. Since genius had forgotten to lock the door, he walked in and proceeded to bleed all over our house. Considering all of the blood he left at our house, and his ten-block trip, it's a wonder we didn't find a dead body in our house. He then passed out for a little while, woke up, and dragged himself to the hospital.

Well, following a little facebook stalking, it turns out that I used to date one of his frat brothers. Go figure. This made the clean up a lot easier, i.e, our mutual "friend" got him to pay for the clean up. I'm assured that the bleeder does not have a problem with alcohol or depression. I beg to differ, but as long as he's done bleeding on my belongings, it's out of my hands.

Moral of the story:
Don't live with people who can't lock the door, and invest in teflon flooring.