You know those stories where roommates leave socks on the door to tell their bunkmates not to come home for the night? That sock is now a text message and that bunkmate is me. I don’t know anyone here, but apparently Liza has decided to be the Welcome Wagon for a special young man. So here I am, ranting all of this on my BlackBerry because of my overwhelming compulsion to write how much I hate my new roommate. It’s a new school year but the lounge already smells like beer and feet. And the sofa has clearly welcomed both into its enormous cushions. I love college.
I made a new friend, I think. I was trying to sleep in the common area (not aided by the fact that the lights have motion detectors and flicker on whenever someone walks down the hallway or I shift even slightly) when a fellow new student took pity on me. His name is Neal, and his roommate was apparently gone for the night as well. Looks like the start of some Amos-cest right there. Slept on their brand new futon and was accused of “walk of shaming” back to my floor this morning. I don’t even know what that means. This place is confusing.
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