On Friday, the impossible became possible. After a strained situation with my roommate, she finally succeeded in switching into a single. This is where the amazing part comes in. I am left with a spacious single equipped with the materials to have my own couch and pong table. My life seems to have become a heaven on earth. Although the stress of sharing a small space with another person is alleviated, a new anxiety has found its way into my life. Every day, I am filled with a foreboding feeling that a new person will come in and destroy this dream come true. In an effort to subdue this ever-present shadow that looms over my happy situation, I have undertaken Operation Crazy Crack Whore.
One road I can take is that of a sex-crazed maniac. When notified that someone is interested in my room, I will pull out my newly formed stash of condoms and scatter them in some key places: on and under the bed she will be sleeping in, by her window and on the door handle that she will have to open to get out. They will obviously be opened and treated with a touch of Elmer’s glue. Just to make sure that she understands just what she may be getting herself into, I can scatter a few other accessories around the room, tastefully of course. There will be the crotchless panties daintily draped on the bed post and as complicated a vibrator as I can find laid on top of some “adult literature.” Again, this will be placed on any piece of furniture that she will be using. If I really want to get the point across, I will generously warn her about those “love stains” on her mattress.
Before you stop reading out of pure disgust (which I hope is the case, because then this plan of mine might just work), I could take the route of the angry addict. With carefully chosen heavy metal music cranked to it’s loudest decibel level, I can create a welcoming atmosphere. Then, I can strategically place lines of baking powder across my bedside table mirror and “accidentally” leave it out for my potential roommate to take notice. In addition, I can have nicely arranged plastic baggies of “mysterious substances” in prominent places around my room. If this does not seem to be working, I can always ask her to tie me off before she leaves, hopefully in a panic.
Yet another option is to convince her of my insanity. Tactics to convey this would be asking her to please wear a name tag when entering my room, or prominently displaying mutilated voo doo dolls and scented candles in strange formations. Strange mannerisms are another possibility, things like yelling at her to watch out when she enters the room, then asking her in an exasperated voice to kindly remove her shoes and place them outside the door. A nice touch to this strategy would be some added rumors whispered by my hallmates (hint hint). Of course, if all else fails, I can admit to her that my roommate was a bed wetter. All of these contrived ways of protecting my assets may seem crazed to those of you who have not tasted the sweetness of this freedom. But trust me, you too can be transformed into a plotting, conniving creature when faced with the possibility of losing your “studio apartment” overlooking the stunning Appel commons. But if you are looking for a new room on North Campus, I’m actually an angry, insane junkie-whore. Unless you’re a wealthy heiress with a car.
Archived article by Becky Wolozin
Sun Staff Writer