If you value your credit score, never co-sign a lease with Janice Griffith. She has an excuse for everything. Rent is due on the 1st, but Janice gets paid on the 3rd. Then the 5th. Then something happened with her car. Then her grandma sent money but the transfer is pending.
She always has the money for DoorDash delivery fees, iced lattes, and weekend brunches, but when it comes time to pay the electric bill, she is suddenly destitute. She thrives on the "Venmo Float," borrowing $20 here and $50 there, promising to pay you back "Friday," a Friday that never seems to arrive.
If you take one thing from this cautionary tale, let it be these hard-won lessons:
Janice had one sleep schedule: never. She’d blast lo-fi beats at 3 AM because it “helped her brainstorm.” When I asked her to use headphones, she looked at me like I’d just insulted her grandmother. “I need to feel the music,” she said.
I needed to feel sleep.
This is the most infuriating part of the worst roommate ever story: Janice Griffith is out there. Right now. Somewhere. She has a new roommate. A fresh victim. Her social media is a highlight reel of “living my best life” posts while her Venmo history tells a darker story of small claims court judgments and requests for “gas money to visit my sick grandma.”
She changes cities often. She changes names on rental applications. But the pattern is always the same: charm, chaos, theft, and a goat.
Every story about the worst roommate ever has an uninvited guest. Janice’s was a man named “Chad” (obviously). Chad had no job, no shirt, and a persistent odor of stale cigarettes and broken dreams. He moved in on a Tuesday, claiming it was “just for the night.” Three months later, he was sleeping on the couch, using Megan’s towel, and eating her cereal with his hands.
When Megan confronted Janice, Janice said, “Chad is an artist. He needs stability to finish his graphic novel about a zombie skateboarder. You wouldn’t understand creativity.”
Chad’s graphic novel never materialized. But his 4 AM drum circle practice sessions did.
The breaking point happened on a Tuesday. I came home to find Janice had rearranged my bedroom as a “surprise.” My bed was now in the kitchen. My desk was in the bathroom. My clothes were draped over the fire escape.
“I felt like your space lacked flow,” she explained.
I packed a bag and stayed at a friend’s house for three days. When I returned, she’d moved a drum set into the hallway and adopted a guinea pig named “Finance Bro.”
If you ask Janice to do her share of the chores, prepare for a masterclass in weaponized incompetence. The concept is simple: if she does a job poorly enough, you’ll stop asking her to do it.
Janice treats basic life skills like they are arcane magic that only you possess, all so she can watch you scrub the toilet while she scrolls on her phone.