After having a dream about being serial-killed yesterday at like, 5am, I decided to wallow about in bed avoiding sunlight for the next twelve hours. During my vegetative period I was half-awake marathoning Scrubs (New DVDs! Two seasons for the price of one? I'm laughing, bitches. Starving... BUT LAUGHING) when I heard someone come into my unit. This isn't as extraordinary as it may seem for someone currently living with zero roommates, the housing-hired-checking-room-status-guy is always stopping by to make sure that I'm not, y'know, hiding fourteen Villawood escapees in my bookcase. Anyway, surprise surprise, that was who my visitor was yesterday. Here's where the story gets interesting; if I was in my room with the blinds drawn, the door locked, the lights off, Scrubs up so loud I forgot my own name for three hours; then how on Earth did I find out it was the checking-room-status-guy who had indeed entered my horrible home?
Answer: He came into my room.
Oh yes, he knocked twice then opened the fucker up with his magical key. So there I was, hair looking like something out of Ripley's and wearing nothing but my underwear, as he slid the door open, took one look at the incredibly stunned occupant (me) and went "Oh, sorry."
Ok the only thing more disturbing than his response to seeing a practically naked twenty two year-old woman half awake and freaked by his sudden appearance in a clearly occupied room ("Oh, sorry." for those playing at home) was my response to his pathetic "Oh, sorry". Which, for the record was "Haha! It's ok!". Spoken tone: jovial, Internal sentiments: omg mr moustache get the fuck out of my room!!1!!1