There’s enough social drama going on on my floor to make me want to get a single room all by myself next year. The girls in my roommate’s sorority are finally realizing that the sorority is not all its cracked up to be. And so they sit in groups of friends, or with groups of the older sorority girls, and talk about the passivity of the sorority. For long periods of time. Covering the same problems over and over again.
I am becoming increasing convinced that next year will be strained with three roommates. I have reached an equilibrium with Bridget, but that’s probably in part because the woman hates to even make a decision about when or where to eat dinner. That’s harsh, but she can be a bit indecisive.
Another of our roommates has a boyfriend with which she is fairly physically comfortable. That’s fine. I maintain that a rule of no hanky-panky (and my definition of hanky-panky is loose–I don’t even want to walk in on people sucking face) without some forewarning (so the rest of us can arrange different lodging) should be put into place. She also seems to over-estimate my sociability. Any attempts to pry my cramped, cold fingers from my keyboard during my free time will be met with hostility. No, I don’t want to watch that Trogdor video one more time. She likes to just drop by and chillax and assumes everyone has time to chat, even if they are obviously studying. She’s kinda slow on picking up the “Get the hell out” cues, too, like when I say I’m going to bed, and one hand’s holding pajama pants and the other is on the button of my jeans? Yeah, hun. Get the hell out, unless you want to get a flash of my scary fat legs and even scarier striped, multi-colored (including pink!) underwear. Yes, I do deliberately pick out scary underwear. It’s not like anyone sees them.
The other of my roommates… is an attention hog. It’s not so much that everything is dramatic, but that everything should be cause for you to stop and listen with complete attention. Basic politeness, yes, but disinterest should not be met with pouts and glares and grumbles. Let us enter the real world, now, where you can pardon me for my lack of interest in constantly feeding your attention-machine.
So I think living alone next year would be all kinds of fun. Except that it probably wouldn’t be good for me (or for my bank account). I would become even more of a recluse, would probably never leave my room, and would become even more wrapped up in my own little unapproachable world than I am right now. Damn, that sounds very teenage-angsty. But that’s exactly what I would do, because I know I get like that, even living with someone as I do now.
It’ll probably go better than I expect. I’m just feeling grumpy and frumpy. I need a good workout in the gym and a good laugh. Maybe a tickle, too. My typical panacea.