Chicken

Which, by the way, is the name of Hothead's cat. But we're not talking about Hothead; we're talking about RM, and the game of roommate chicken in which we are currently engaged.

I think I last wrote about him on Saturday, when he told me he would move out at the end of this month. I just said, "okay," without expressing any emotion whatsoever (neither joy, nor surprise, nor pain from suppressing a 'don't let the door hit you on the way out'). It occurred to me that he might have been lying about the orders, that he could be moving up his move-out date because the tension has become unbearable since the foot incident, upon which I determined that avoiding him to the extent possible and being perfectly icy when we do find ourselves in one another's presence would be the only way to prevent future incidents. If I betray any friendliness or even civility, he'd only take that as an invitation to flout boundaries.

Meanwhile, he's been a bad roommate. He's leaving crumbs everywhere. I am not cleaning them up (Roommate chicken, exhibit A).

Second, he's left a note. I have not read it (Roommate chicken, exhibit B). At first it was on his placemat. I saw it, ascertained that it was a note to himself, and opted to ignore it. He has since moved it to my side of the dining room table, although not quite to the placemat at which I normally sit. I don't read notes not meant for me, and I don't reward passive aggression. If it moves closer, I'll let you know what it says.

Meanwhile, he's proverbially pooping on the carpet, i.e. stomping around and slamming doors to make me aware of his displeasure at being ignored. Shrug. Again, I don't reward passive aggression.

I am operating under the assumption that he will not be here for Thanksgiving (if he is, he is not invited to dinner with my parents and me). If he is actually leaving, that gives us about a week of remaining cohabitation. Enjoy the blogging while it lasts (of course, over TG, you will have mom blogging); I won't miss him.