Every Friday I present a list of 7 Things I have learned/observed/frantically made up for your reading pleasure. Love it? Hate It? Got a great idea for a 7 Things spot? Drop me a line at email@example.com
This shirt. You probably know the shirt I am talking about. It’s the shirt. I look good in every single picture that’s been taken of me in that shirt. My overall physical attractiveness peaked Junior year, and I suspect it was because of that shirt. My hair has never quite looked as good as it did Junior year; my teeth never as white. It was this awesome shade of grey that looked good on me, and the sleeves actually fit in the length. Do you even know how hard it is to find a shirt that fits you both in the torso and arm without swallowing you whole when you’re as lanky as I am? They say a woman’s hair is her glory, well, this shirt was mine, and it’s been missing for three years now.
My sense of privacy. I know sacrifices are to be made when you live with three other guys in a two bedroom apartment the size of a cat condo, but a line must be drawn somewhere. Over the years I got used to making private calls outside, locking my phone, and hiding my Gotcha tags, but when you have to take your MacBook with you to school simply so that your roommates wouldn’t have the opportunity to crack your password you know you’ve reached a new level completely. It’s not so much that my privacy was compromised but that I knew how much my other roommate’s privacy had been breached. Whenever you come home to a house that has four MacBooks strategically placed in windows with their webcams on and a feed being transmitted to the flat screen TV in the living room, well, get out.
The last of whatever I’ve been waiting to eat all day. I’ve been thinking about that leftover calzone since the moment I put it in the fridge last night. I dreamt I was stuck in the middle of a busy highway full of cars with calzone wheels. I kept trying to eat them, but they were too fast. I woke up and considered scarfing it down for breakfast, “but no” I thought, “I’ll save it for dinner when I can really enjoy it.” I spent all day in meetings and classes, but all along I persevered because I knew I would soon be chowing down on some cheesy-marinara-filled-goodness. I finally get home, take a quick run, shower, and open the refrigerator door. You, sir, are a bastard.
My trust in your ability to keep our Internet secure. I know you’re probably that guy that’s password is 12345, but I happen to take my Wi-Fi passwords pretty seriously. I’m the guy that figured he could use every phone number he’s ever had in sequential order as his password and only then would it be unbreakable. “C’mon on, Stanton,” you say. “No one would sit around and try to break your password.” Please see two paragraphs above. Here’s the thing, I get tired of our neighbors telling us they’ll chip in for the Internet and then mooch off of us without paying. They’re seriously slowing down my torrent of the latest episode of
True Blood Weeds Sports. So, when I changed the password thereby locking all of that down, what did my roommates do? They went out to the local bar, ran into the neighboring girls, got all liquored up and pumped for the new password. Congratulations bro, you’re that guy from every one of those feminist spy movies.
My sense of athleticism. When I lived in the duplex our neighbors actually thought I was an athlete. I accomplished this deception through the clever usage of track suits and early morning meetings. I guess at some point I kind of started buying into it myself. I ran. I played the occasional game of pick-up basketball. I threw the frisbee around. I wasn’t fat. Turns out not being fat has nothing to do with being athletic. Not running into fourteen inanimate objects a day has something to do with being athletic. I realized this once I started living with three of my friends from the soccer team. These guys ran marathons like I ran into the wall and then to the fridge for ice cream (that is to say: with ease). Their athleticism was inspiring and it spurred me on to try harder… for like two whole weeks. You know that thing they say about setting attainable goals; otherwise you’ll just give up. Yeah, that’s true. Turns out when you don’t achieve washboard abs in fourteen days you just end up consoling yourself with pints of The Americone Dream. You’ll always accept me won’t you, Ben and Jerry?
My faith in humanity. I always thought there was a little bit of decency left in people, you know? Turns out people are just the worst. I’ve had fifteen roommates over the last five years. None of them ever met my standards. Do you have any idea how hard it is to move in with friend after friend only to learn that they suck? I did my very best to change them; to break their spirit; crush their very will to live, but to no avail. They persisted in their grim ways. Shaving without washing out the sink. Using twelve square feet of toilet paper per a dump. Voting for
Obama McCain anyone at all. I don’t know. I would say that I am finally ready to get married, but I bet women suck too. If only I could meet someone just like me…
A little piece of my heart. For all the miscommunications, frustrations, tears, blood, sweat, poop, rotting carcasses, sleep walking, air-soft gun attacks, and Russian I’ve had to put up with over the years you’d think I would want to live alone, but those times have always been the best in my life; even when they were the worst. There, I said it.
What’s the deal with your roommates? Do they greet you with pot-roast and a smile or are they just the worst? I’m sure we’d all love to hear.