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Brandon had the worst cackle you've ever heard. It was so bad, I swear. He's the laziest guy you've ever seen. All he ever does is lay down in his chair, and get this, he sticks his hand down his pants and leaves it there for hours. I'm not even kidding. Hours at a time. You think that he'd feel shame or something being such a lazy asshole and all, but he does n't. That's what gets me. No goal in life. Just sit down at his desk and breathes air. 
 
 Gah, and the noises that come from this kid. He cackles, like a hyaena whenever he smells his fingers afterwards, I'm talking hours after his hand has been down there. He'll smell his fingers, one by one, and then ask me if I want to smell them. Jesus, I'll tell him, no I do n't want to smell your fucking fingers, Brandon. Then he keeps cackling that high pitched cackle. God, I hate him. I hate him even more than my last room mate, Evan. 
 
 Evan was n't so bad compared to Brandon. I mean, I still hated him and all because he'd always bring over the best looking girls, and I do mean the best looking girls, and then he'd give them the time right in front of me. Right there across from me as I'm trying to read he's splicing sex organs with this Dutch girl from the study abroad program. The week before that was an artsy girl with chopped blonde hair and the week before that a black girl that was missing a few teeth. He'd just screw'em and then he'd head over to the fridge- which was directly next to me- and then take a few sodas and not even offer me one, the prick. 
 
 But I'd take Evan any day over Brandon wagging his taint-scented fingers in my nostrils, the bastard. 
 

