Moving out of my parents’ house was supposed to be the beginning of my freedom—no more nagging about dirty socks or leaving pizza crusts on the table. But nobody warned me about intergalactic freeloaders.
Let me introduce myself—I'm Ramesh, a 25-year-old human with a normal job, normal problems, and very abnormal roommates. Zog, the green blob with tentacles, believes shampoo is a glowing potion to summon space gods. Blip, the slick blue dude with sunglasses, thinks pizza is supposed to hover mid-air for maximum flavor absorption. I should have known something was off when the landlord offered me a five-bedroom apartment for half the rent—“just a few quirks,” he said. Yeah, like dealing with aliens who think Alexa is the supreme ruler of Earth.
My life has become an endless loop of cleaning up after cosmic disasters and explaining why you don’t microwave socks. And don’t even get m
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