My Confession: Thanks for ruining our apartment. You owe me $1,000

I guess this is the price of finding a roommate on Craigslist.

The little things, I let slide: You ate all my Rice Chex after returning home from drunken benders in the East Village. You took over the bathroom for two-hour blocks in the morning. And, yes, you and your boyfriend made awkward, panting noises — breathless yelping could not be muffled by our rice-paper-thin walls. These are the widely accepted trade-offs for 20-somethings who yearn to live and party in Manhattan, with little income to spare.

The apartment was charming, which meant cramped, which in New York means 500 square feet. It was an old tenement building on 11th Street, but the landlord remodeled four years prior. We had a new stove, new fridge, plus clean, tan carpeting in the living room (where I slept) and bedroom (where you and your moaner boyfriend slept).

We had a small amount of fun while living together, and you weren't a total jerk. Ten months later, with me turning 28 and you turning 27, we decided it was time to grow up, end the lease and go our separate ways. I was thinking of moving in with my significant other in Gramercy. You were looking for more space, closer to Nolita.

Anyway, three weeks before we moved out, you decided to throw one last soiree while I was in Maryland. I still don't know the whole story. The next morning you were on the phone with me, crying, saying something about "burning the lasagna" and "setting the kitchen on fire." I came home to a five-foot-wide hardened patch of charred flooring near the refrigerator.

The next month, we received a note from our landlord that we wouldn't be getting our security deposit back. The $2,000 was going toward new linoleum.

I expected you to do the honorable thing and offer me my portion of the security deposit. You replied, "That wouldn't be fair. You made a mess, too."

Notice she said "mess," rather than "fire."

I'm still waiting for my check.