Housemate Wanted


As soon as you enrol in nursing, people suddenly believe you can deal with whatever fucked-up health situation they get into. Alcohol poisoning? Tell the nurse. Tried to ride your mattress down the stairs on West and break your neck? Tell the nurse. Suspect you have Ebola? Tell the nurse and make sure to cough on her as much as possible.

Nursing students are not prepared to deal with your stupidity. We can barely deal with our own. For the majority of our degree, unless you’re in the hospital, the most we can do for you is call an ambulance, give shitty first-aid and try not to puke. We are not prepared to deal with your bad choices. Don’t get me wrong, I make a lot of bad choices. Alcohol and hormones have fuelled the majority of bad choices I have made (and will continue to make) over the last few years. Although I’ve puked in more inappropriate places than anyone can imagine and have made a fool of myself in every conceivable way at our fine local establishments, I have the intelligence to not perform self-surgery. However, my housemate does not.

Of all the fucked up health situations that my friends have informed me about in the last 4 years, nothing prepared me for my housemate casually telling me he cut out a cyst on his leg with a dirty kitchen knife. When I questioned him about why the fuck he thought that would be a good idea, he responded with “It’s exam time… I’m bored”.  Now I get being bored; I’m bored 99.9% of the time, but no amount of boredom would make me think that taking a dirty kitchen knife out of our fruit fly infested kitchen sink to my upper thigh would be a good idea.  

At this point I can see that he’s beginning to sweat, not from my judgement but from the raging infection he has given himself. He goes to turn down the heat in our already freezing apartment because of the fever he’s spiked which he attributes to him catching sight of his reflection in the mirror. My other housemates walk in the room and join me in trying to convince my idiot of a housemate to go to a hospital – instead he decides to go to the gym and let “the gains” heal him.

Long story short, I am now looking for a new housemate. One who preferably doesn’t think self-surgery is a good idea because I’m really not equipped to deal with your bad choices.