My flatmate is a pyschopath

Tonight I heard repeated thuds, as of a head tapped in a doorway. Dunk! Dunk! Dunk! These sounds caused my door to open, even, and increased in volume. DUNK! DUNK! DUNK-DUNK! Not a head, in fact. Instead, it was my flatmate trying to close the door in the dark of our hallway, frustrated, saying "I can't get this damn door to close! I don't know what it is!" I turned on the light and immediately saw two problems. One, their was a chain on the door, preventing him from pulling back. Two, the dead bolt was jutting out. And now it was bent, and had busted the door frame. When he, too, acknowledged the problem, he said, "Wait--I've got an idea! Hammer..." His hammer was a micropenis. I said "Let me get my pliers, or a wrench: something to torque the bolt back instead of knocking it," but not before he smacked the bolt precariously towards him, chipping the paint off the door in the process. I took the hammer from him. With a look of manic concentration in his eyes, and his socked-and-sandaled foot stabilizing his Hulk grip of the door, I pulled the bolt back with a wrench. Clicked in. Clicked out. Door Shut and Locked. He extended his hand for a "good job!" handshake. I didn't want to touch him. I dangled my hand over his for a moment then pulled back gracefully. I hate drugs.

Our ceiling is leaking. What was once an ugly red waterstain channeling the lines of our ceiling's gridded makeup has since become a car door dangling off a cliff. With each film of precipitation on the roof--and a crackpot landlord--our hallway becomes increasingly dangerous. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. All its taken for several months to tear it down. He let it puddle and wrinkle our woodfloors. Piss off our downstairs neighbors (which, to be honest, I don't mind; they blast their bachata too loud and too often for me to give a fuck about them) and start a chain of misery headed south. I put a carpet down to absorb. Stupid, I know, but I didn't know what else to do while waiting for the landlord to fix it. Eventually I decided to put a bucket underneath this concentrated drip in our unlit hallway. He hasn't tripped over it yet, but he has pushed it out of the way to walk to the door and back. And not returned it. And let it puddle and wrinkle our woodfloors and piss off our downstairs neighbors who listen to Bachata too loud and too often for me to give a fuck about them.