Collegiate Times

HE SAID:

Sometimes people ask how many roommates I have. I could answer that question technically, but that would effectively be a lie.

I’ve signed three apartment contracts in my collegiate career, and every single document has contained at least one phantom tenant.

It never fails that I split rent with people in relationships.

And it’s not those get-to-know-each-other dating relationships that shift throughout the semester. No, these duos have been so committed that I come home from class and feel like I should put my exam grades on the refrigerator for them. Their foresight suggests eternity, and I might as well be their test child. (I just wish they packed me school lunches.)

However, sharing square footage with an extra resident isn’t necessarily an inconvenience — or a total one, I should say.

If you’re lucky, the companion is fun. They have a vibrant personality and want to contribute energy to the dwelling. An occasional belly laugh might find its origins with them, or they at least contribute “Flight of the Conchords” to the DVD rack.

It’s even possible they’ll cook a delicious meal and offer you the extras.

But that’s one seemingly pleasant advantage that can in fact turn things sour.

Whipping up a glamorous “Top Chef” feast is nice, yes, but it inherently yields a volcanic pile of dishes. Just to rinse off a spoon thereafter, you must transform your arm into a noodle to slide by the pots and pans. And often those dishes end up rotting for days until simply walking into the kitchen makes your knees buckle.

As you scrub away at their mess, you suddenly wish the candlelight by which they ate would have tipped over and caught the dinner table on fire.

Or maybe they actually dined on the couch, a practice that can morph into another grievance.

Inevitably they clean their plates, afterwards submitting to a food coma. Sprawled out for hours stacked like pancakes, the two are one giant impediment to your enjoyment of the living room. If you want to catch a television show, you have to do so with 20 toes prodding at your thigh. Or if you happen to have a love seat, you ironically migrate to that.

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