My flatmates are really fucking dumb. No, you don’t understand. I thought I was stupid, but these fuck-heads just take it to a whole other level. Here’s an update on what’s been going down in the land of the retarded—aka our south London squat “Squallyoaks”—as of late.

For a couple months now I’ve been living with a prostitute. At first she was just sort of crashing-out in our kitchen, but recently (after performing a sufficient amount of sexual favors for my horny male squatmates) she graduated to an actual bedroom. Moving up in the world. Last week she contracted cystitis—that vaj infection thing you get after being cock-pounded too hard. After suffering a few days of discomfort, Prostitute Googled her symptoms and found that an easy cure for her ailment was cranberry juice. Easy, right? I thought so. That was until she barged into my room this morning and shouted, “Ugh! How long does it take for this shit to work!? I’ve been rubbing cranberry juice on my cunt for three days now and it’s only gotten worse!” I wonder if there’s a link between rough sex and loss of brain cells…

This morning I caught my housemate Dominic blowing his nose on our cat. I walked into the kitchen and he was just running his druggy, wet nose along the poor animal’s back. When I asked him what he was doing, he shrugged and replied, “What’s the point in having this thing if I can’t wipe my snot on it?”

Last week my bat-shit squatmate Hannah got a new iPhone. This is like her fifth phone in two months, because every time she gets a new one it either gets stolen at some sketchy, psych-trance forest rave… or she mistakes it for a spider while on acid and smashes it… or it gets lost inside her giant vagina. Whatever. Who cares?

So yet again Hannah came home on Tuesday morning after a wasted night out with her phone in about a million pieces, and had to claim a new one on her insurance. But you see, Hannah’s a bit slow, so after she told the insurance company that her phone had been stolen on the 149 bus, she started freaking that the phone’s GPS navigating system would reveal that the phone was still, in fact, in her possession. I tried to convince her that the GPS wouldn’t work if phone was turned off, but she was still so paranoid (a side effect from all the acid, perhaps?) that she trekked all the way out to the edge of London, smashed the phone into even smaller pieces, dug a hole in the dirt, and buried it. Take that insurance company! You and your new-fangled magical phone machines will never catch me! Moron.

Is there a place you can go to exchange your friends for new, cooler, more functional ones? I can already feel them rubbing off on me.