You know what’s super terrible? Bad houseguests. You can’t say it isn’t. If you have no idea what I mean, you are a lucky soul. And you know who is the worst houseguest? James Vega.
He’s fucking horrible.
He invites himself over through email, and you feel obligated to oblige ’cause he thinks you’re best friends with nicknames. “You look like a Lola… That’s your new name.” Weirdo. When he gets in your home he gets waaay too interested your partner’s genitalia and steps over many boundaries. After this super uncomfortable chat, he proceeds to take off his shirt and show you his jailhouse tattoo. Great. Thanks. Ugh. NO ONE ASKED YOU TO UNDRESS. ESPECIALLY AFTER YOU ASKED ABOUT MY TURIAN BOYFRIEND’S JUNK.
He says he’s going home. Once his shirt has returned. But it’s a lie. It’s a goddamn lie. That horrible houseguest is running through your home like a candy-cracked toddler and he’s in your home gym touching all your stuff.
Then the WORST is he heckles you into beating his pull-up record. Because. Of course. Ugh. Oh, that’s not so ba… Oh. 181 is… So 182… Of button pressing… A button press for every pull-up… Oh
Fuck you James Vega. Yeah, I beat your stupid bullshit record. But ugh why won’t you leave my house after. WHY DID I HAVE TO CALL A FRIEND OVER SO YOU WOULD FINALLY LEAVE.
James Vega: worst houseguest.