Ah, August. The breezes blowing, children playing, freedom from overbearing parents once again in the air, and the lovely task of commencing awkward roommate conversations. Exciting, isn’t it?
Oh God, how does it feel to be so wrong, as an independent blogger once wrote in a post that should have been circumcised prenatally. And let me tell you, while you are almost halfway not quite as wrong as a monkey asking a chain smoking squirrel out on a date as a joke, only to discover that she used to take photography classes while making her grand way in the world as a stripper, you are equally as wrong as a lady squirrel who finds herself on a pity date with a rather gray monkey whose ass leaves much to be desired or left undiscovered.
Apparently, irrational people like meth, and even more apparently, meth does not cure irrationality. Who knew? That being said, roommates could almost always be worse.
In preparation for our first year as independent crazies, a charismatically developed Residence Assistant coached us on the best way to deal with our fellow crazies when we’re boxed together in neat little pot-smoking packages:
"What are some roommate problems you think you might have?"
And you could just tell by his accent that he could smell the crazy in the room, and it didn’t scare him one itty little bit. Plus, he plays rugby, and we were all girls, since apparently all the guys at our orientation session were too engrossed in the school’s information fair, or making out with each other, or getting a head start in the pot business–all of which become perfectly commendable activities when hazing is ruled out–to bother finding out how to deal with roommates who deal pot.
"Dealing pot!" was the first inspired response.
Then, "Not dealing pot!" which I guess was supposed to be funny, but just think about the consequences…. Marijuana is no laughing matter; I never met either of my parents because they died before I was born from not doing pot. It was the 70’s, but that doesn’t make it okay.
Then, "Dealing meth!" and naturally right after that, "Not dealing meth!"
Holy God-muffins. Let me tell you, if feces ever did fly, they were so far past the fan that if I had an accent of appropriate caliber, I would tell you dat nuthin evah lahk dat did be seen.
Apparently, irrational people like meth, and even more apparently, meth does not cure irrationality. Who knew? (If you are not presently under the influence of hard drugs, you might be able to answer this; if not, just hover your mouse over the rightmost star at the bottom of this article and left-click as many times as you can. I swear, it doesn’t get more high.)
Then an unfamiliar Asian: "Cutting your hair while you’re sleeping and saving it in a jar," and it was like I’d never left home. The Residence Assistant told us a story about two best friends who did exactly that, if you substitute "drunk" for "sleeping," "back alley waterway" for "jar," and "finger" for "hair." Also, "schizophrenic mob cowboys" for "best friends."
But all of that is perfectly okay and a little untrue–the boyfriend would tell you that I’m not the most reliable storyteller. ("The" because he’s the only one of his kind in my life, and "boyfriend" because he’s a balding woman who secretly hates me, in the way reserved for boyfriends to hate pathological liars they happen to know, or the way reserved for monkeys to hate squirrels, and vice versa, or, if we get down to it, the way people who feel the urge to be employable in two and a half years usually hate mind-altering drugs.)
But this, my friend, is a college campus, and if there’s one thing anyone should tell you before you arrive, I wish you’d tell me what it is, because I am, frankly, one terrified and overconfident lady squirrel.