And then things got even weirder...

In a repeat performance of the previous evening, The Good Roommate zoomed out of his room as soon as I got home last night, intent on conversing with me as I nuked my Amy's macaroni and soy cheez frozen meal. (Stop that eye rolling. Whole Foods is the only grocery store within walking distance and it was on sale, OK?)

"So how's it going?" he asked.
"Oh, you know. Fine," I replied.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Not a whole lot. My day was pretty standard," I replied.
"What's new?" he prodded.
"Um... I'm having a hard time getting a senator to call me back for a story I'm writing," I finally offered in hopes of ending the cycle of pleasantries.
"Oh. That sucks. So I've been thinking about what I told you last night."
"Please tell me you decided against poisoning him."
"Don't worry. I had another idea. Remember that email I sent out a couple months ago?"
(Note: he's referring to a six-page email he sent me and The Flatulent One enumerating all the different rules of the apartment. Example: "The food I buy is my food. While I don't mind sharing, it is my decision on whether to share my food or not. I did not buy it for you, and you may not have anything I want in return.")
"He's been using all my silverware and dishes and not washing them when he's done. (Note: this is a violation of Rule No. 3--Using Stuff in the Kitchen) Before I leave this weekend I'm going to either take all my pots and pans and stuff with me to my parents' or hide them all in my room."
"What if I have to make something, though?" I asked.
"Oh. Well... You could pick out everything you think you'll need and hide it in your room," he offered.

After politely declining this gracious offer, we spent a jovial 10 minutes discussing how ill-equipped for life The Flatulent One is. It was during this time that TGR told me how much he enjoyed having me as a roommate, all the while staring at my chest.