This House Is Not a Motel

So Brittany, the sweet roommate, is moving out because she was accepted to grad school and she has to start right this very minute. She spent all of last week interviewing Craigslist candidates to take her place and she finally found one who was set to move in by June 1st. This girl, we'll call her EMILY STENSON, was nice enough, not that I really cared. I don't need another friend, I just need a roommate.
EMILY STENSON was supposed to move in this weekend. That is, until she decided to look me up on Myspace. My profile then directed her to this little blahg, where she read my posts about Anne (my other roommate, who has quit her job to plan her wedding, which is not until December). EMILY STENSON then sent me some bullshit email where she was all lol-ing it up, telling me she likes my apartment, but she doesn't want to live with Anne.
I tell you what, Emily, I'm a survivor and living with Anne is small potatoes compared to the nutcases I've been paired with in the past. There was Crazy Karen, my freshman year of college, who would go three weeks at least without bathing, and Brandy, my sophomore year, who deemed it necessary for our dorm room to be fully armed with a set of butterfly knives. I escaped the next two years without incident, for the most part.
Well, Emily. You aren't fit to be my roommate and I don't need your LOL's and dangling modifiers poisoning the bloodline of my roommate lineage. I suppose I didn't make enough of an impression in the flesh; you needed some sort of validation from Myspace that I am cool enough to be your roommate. In some regions that's called stalking -- or at least a mild form of stalking. Good luck out there, kid. Yeah, living with a slightly unbalanced devout Catholic is not always a walk in the park but at least I have a roof over my head. LOL that.