I’ll be the first to admit that I’m probably not the best roommate.

I’ll be the second to admit that I’m probably not the second or third-best either.

If you made a list of everyone at UWI, in order of good-roommate-ness, I would probably not even cut the top hundred.

My roommate and I

Here is the thing, though.

My roommate is probably just as bad as I am.

We chose each other. We deserve each other. We hate each other. We love each other. We are very complex individuals. We started off with the idea that we would formulate our agreements regarding the running of our shared environment before our arrival on hall, however, mid-negotiation, my roommate decided that she would rather work things out in the moment as they come, which, I, personally, blame for why we tend to more often than not, live in a state of disarray.

Consequently, we are both seldom actually physically in room 20 because we’re both disgusted by it. I will also admit that she tidies more often than I do. I also maintain that she is simply never present in that sliver of time between me tidying and me needing to find a particular item where my side of the room is clean.

Interesting background story about the “my side of the room” bit:

When I first arrived on Trinity Hall, D. was not my roommate. My roommate was a very tidy, very taciturn and very academic engineer named N. She lived on the side of the room furthest from the door and closest to the window. The following academic year when I returned and she didn’t, being the “grass is greener on the other side” type of person that I am, I commandeered that side of the room before the arrival of my roommate-to-be, D. I made my bed, I put my things where I needed them to be, I occupied the closet and desk space – I marked my territory, essentially. Considering my work done, I left room 20 for a reunion with dearly missed friends whom I had not been able to see for the three months of break.

When I returned later that night, opened the door to room 20 and stepped inside, the string of expletives which flew through my mind was too quick to verbalize in the moment but the individual constituents of that string made their way into verbalization over the course of the next twenty or so minutes. She had moved my bed, replaced it with her bed and added her things to my side of the room. This would not do. This is not how it was supposed to work. The configuration of this room was not something I was aware was up for debate. I lifted her mattress, tossed it aside and dragged her bed-frame back to where it belonged. I replaced her mattress. I went about re-configuring my belongings on my side of the room. She, and two mutual friends gaped at my insanity.

To this day, I cannot get her to stay on her own bed.
(But it’s okay, I use it as an excuse to sleep on hers sometimes. When it is tidy which is seldom is.)

Of late, our food situation has been getting a bit ridiculous, as evidenced below:

she ate the bread 11156776_10206427813563763_1414666247_n

Every UWI student knows that weekends are for going home and having your parents/guardians/benevolent aunties and grannies replenish your food supplies. Not so in room 20. I stopped going home on weekends a long time ago and D’s major and extra-curricular interests rarely allow her such weekend luxuries.

As such, our food situation at times gets ugly. The following, for example is what I prepared in a passive-aggressive attempt to make my roommate jealous after she asked me while I was sick if to also make me something for breakfast/lunch (brunch?), then couldn’t find a pot, then decided to only make herself something.

11165861_10206427777882871_173165809_n
Spaghetti, vegetable sauce and coconut breaded shrimp

Because I was sick, I could only manage to eat about two bites. She ate the rest of it.

It is a daily struggle to live with me and no easy feat to be my roommate. I applaud you, you Egg.

Yes, it is also a struggle to live with you, as you use my dishes and don’t wash them, sleep on my bed when I ask you not to and eat my stale bread destined for greater things but it’s all worth it to have you, your grandmother’s cooking, access to your wardrobe, and the single greatest perk of living with you: an invaluable improvement to my eyeliner game.

I love you, Egg.

Peace, love, and roommate acceptance,
M.

P.S. it’s your responsibility to take out the trash, now could you please do it? That includes the recycling.

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