I Prefer to Live Alone
I had a roommate in college. We got along smashingly. The rules were simple. We got to school a week early and partied together. Then, for the rest of the semester, we completely ignored each other. It seemed like a good plan.
Still, it didn't quite work out. I'm sure that I was fabulous to live with. I have some obsessive compulsive behaviors, but nothing that disturbing. Just the usual food hoarding and hair plucking. Here's what didn't work for me:
- Her boyfriend, who never stopped talking (and who also never saw a problem with discarding used condoms under my bed).
- Seeing her across the quad in my clothes from head to toe.
Being the more mature of the two, I decided that I should move out to be with my Delinquent Boyfriend (DB). It was a perfect plan. "But Mom, I Love Him! He repaid his debt to society." Thus, my parents disowned me and I moved in with DB. I was ready to begin living in the Real World.
I need to explain that I never had to share a room with my sister. Just as I discovered that I didn't enjoy sharing a room with my college roommate, it soon became clear that I didn't enjoy sharing a room with DB either. It started with socks, crumpled up and stiff on the couch. Then it was boxers on the floor of the bathroom. I was not prepared for what I found one morning.
Mom was visiting. Naturally, she couldn't be under the same roof as DB and was staying in the Wyndham Garden Hotel. I spent the night with her. I woke up early and had a brilliant idea. I would stop home and cuddle DB before I went to class.
I opened the door. DB was sprawled out on the couch, completely nude (next to a pair of crumpled, stiff socks). That was okay. A box of VHS tapes with titles like "Rimmerama" and "Stir Fry Snatch" was next to the TV. That was less okay. A bottle of my expensive, imported body hydrating cream with real silk protein was lying on its side next to his foot. That was it.
And just like that, I was back in the dorms.