Motherfucker's George Foreman grill

So Dipshit/Motherfucker/Asswipe...he doesn't know the meaning of dinner if it doesn't involve his George Foreman grill. This means seemingly every fucking night that he eats here, I have to endure the sound of SIZZLING, the smell of grease, and the air of smokiness. And my room's right off the kitchen. I'd like to take his face and slam IT onto the grill. He also doesn't know how to do ANYthing in silence. Meaning, he absolutely MUST listen to crackling AM talk radio during said meals. God forbid he sit alone with his thoughts...or even just read something. Did I mention how my room is right off the kitchen? So I hear/smell all of this? Like right now. Have I also ever mentioned how there is not a SINGLE MOVE that me makes that isn't an unspeakably irritating one? I really don't know HOW i'm gonna survive once his summer extended weekends at the shore come to an end. Because, honestly, simply opening my mouth to mutter "HEY" whenever I see him is entirely too taxing. With any luck, he'll leave soon for the gym or market or his ridiculous 11pm hockey games 40 minutes away, and I can again pretend he doesn't exist. Now, sure, I could go somewhere myself...except it's raining and 58 degrees, and i'm also inexplicably exhausted. More so, the latter excuse. I SHOULD go for a brisk walk, though. You know, the only thing I can do that really doesn't involve interaction with another human. Hey, wait, I have Dunkin Donuts coupons! I could fetch me a HOT cheap jolt of caffeine on this autumnal-like August evening! Give me the energy to slam Dipshit's face into something...