True Life: I Hate My Roommate

It was the bag of vomit, I think. That was the moment when I realized that I hate my roommate. About a week and a half into classes, after feeding my pasta toss addiction at Houston and pretending to study for a couple hours, I returned to my room to find it smelling of decomposing Chipotle, Dark Temptation Axe body spray and something far, far more sinister.

It smelled like… like the floor of a frat bathroom. Like the inside of one of those little bags they give weak–willed passengers on airplanes. Like… NSO. More specifically, the second night of NSO when, as it turns out, my roommate had vomited into a plastic bag and nestled it snugly in the back of our closet.

The open containers of food he hid under my bed were fine. They attracted all sorts of creatures, but I was considering being a Bio major so I didn’t say anything. The overuse of Dark Temptation Axe was fine too — I never had to worry about being sexiled.

Even the time he blew his nose and left the dirty  tissue postin’ up atop my pillow was fine. I told myself it’d strengthen my immune system. But when, in an attempt to excavate my Sperry’s from the closet, I discovered his pukey little surprise, I decided enough was enough.

No more coming in at 3 a.m. on weeknights and making phone calls to girls who, seriously bro, are not interested in you. No more inviting your friends over without warning to sleep on the floor right next to my bed (seriously, if I broke his rib, it’s his problem). No more telling me that I brush my teeth too often (twice a day, thank you very much), or wearing my flip-–flops into the shower (the horror), or thinking that we share an umbrella (it’s my umbrella, not the umbrella).

No. No more. If anyone’s looking for a roommate, you can find me at the place where hygiene, social tact and completed digestion come to die.

More from Highbrow:
Word on the Street: My European F.O.M.O.
Overheard at Penn
Toasts & Roasts