Of roommates and frostbite

I had a Roommate Situation about two weeks before the school year was supposed to start. I probably shouldn’t go broadcasting her private affairs all over the Internet, so I won’t go into it, but the long and short of it is that I now have a new roommate. She’s from California, where she goes to school, and she’s taking a semester off to do an internship here. She’s been a good roommate so far. She doesn’t blast her music late into the night and she restocks the toilet paper, and that’s really all I’m looking for.

However, I did overhear her on the phone a few weeks ago saying, “How is it this cold ALREADY?” It was sixty degrees. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the university had to shut down last year because people were getting frostbite at the bus stops, but I feel like somebody should.

I shouldn’t get a fall break. I can’t be trusted with it.

We just got back from fall break, which was basically just a really long weekend. My roommate is making me deluxe mac and cheese because I’m not high-class enough to have ever had such a thing, and also because I drove us four hours at night during torrential downpour to get us back to school. The things I do for education. My roommate doesn’t swear much, so I think she was, I guess you could say surprised, at some of the phrases I started using in high traffic.

I have a few weird obsessions going on right now, which is making schoolwork at best somewhat difficult, and at worst the lowest possible priority. They are a) the band Bastille, b) Ben Barnes, and c) Pottermore. Over break, I attempted to listen to every cover Bastille has ever done, while also watching Ben Barnes’ entire filmography, and catching up on Pottermore. I also re-read The Prisoner of Azkaban. I did not do my poetry essay.

All in all, everything went about as expected. I didn’t do my poetry essay, but I did bring all the necessary supplies with me to my house. So I essentially lugged all my notes and books and crap across the entire state for absolutely no reason.

I’m a mess. There, it’s official.

My roommate and I are already at that point in the school year where we’re leaving to go to class at the last possible second. Three weeks ago, we were leaving half an hour early, ear buds in, bags fully packed with folders, writing utensils, and the assigned reading. Nowadays, however, you’re more likely to see one of us sprinting out the door when we should’ve left five minutes before, holding crumpled papers and a piece of toast and screaming, “I’M LATE, BYE.” No ear buds; there’s no time to untangle that shitstorm. We frequently don’t grab the right books and have to run back, screwing ourselves over even further. And when I use the royal “we,” of course, I really just mean me. I say we to make myself feel better. I think I saw her sprinting out the door, like, once. And even then she was wearing this really cute dress. I usually wear whatever’s on my floor because it’s within reach. I’m a perpetual life mess.

My roommate is a bona fide adult, and I am not

When I say my roommate can cook, what I actually mean is she LOVES to cook. She’s constantly making cookies, muffins, super complicated dinners, and what have you. I try to get in there and make my own crappy meal before she does, because hers is a whole production and she’ll be in there for hours. I cannot impress upon you the degree to which I can’t make food. I  live off sandwiches and macaroni. I don’t even know how I’m alive.

She’s also extremely creative. Right now she’s making a grilled cheese with tomatoes using BAGELS because her bread expired today. To put this in perspective, MY bread expired four days ago and I’m going to keep making my basic turkey sandwiches until I see green mold. This should give you the idea that, in addition to having no creative aptitude for food, I also don’t have any sense of self-preservation.

The most creative thing I do is toast the bread before I stick it in my eight-dollar toaster from Sears and then throw on the ham and cheese, so I can trick myself into thinking it’s like a croque-monsieur. I’m livin’ large, people. (It’s not even remotely like a croque-monsieur.)

Right at this very second I’m eating a coconut banana muffin that she made. I hate both bananas and the flavor of coconut. But this is good. This is really good.

Being sick, awkward encounters of the “roommate’s ex-boyfriend” variety, and The Hunger Games

Hoo boy. That title was a mouthful. But I feel so icky and not creative. I’m constantly blowing my nose. This was a problem in class, because I managed to get the desk nobody ever wants—the one that’s deeply entrenched in the jungle of other haphazardly placed desks, so you have to climb over six people every time you want a Kleenex.

My roommate put up our Christmas lights, and they look AH-MAZING. Her ex-boyfriend visited this weekend, and within hours of meeting me he apparently felt comfortable enough in our relationship where he could just strip off his pants with zero weirdness whatsoever.

Also? The movie trailer for “The Hunger Games” is out, and it looks AWESOME.

(Seventeen days until December! WOOHOO!)

Mini candy canes, Christmas lights and Joey Richter’s hair of the GODS

I’m writing this week’s post for SparkLife and I’m torn between describing Joey Richter’s hair as “luscious” or “the embodiment of all human attractiveness.”

Anywho. Twenty-three days until December! I have big plans for December, dudes. Big plans, the least of which is that I won’t be at home to help decorate the tree this year, so I’m going to force them to put me on Skype so I can shout instructions… while drinking cocoa and eating mini candy canes by the bucketload, of course. 

Twenty-three days. Twenty-three days. Can I last? I think I can last. At least with the knowledge that are only seventeen days until my self-imposed Christmas carols ban has lifted and I can ROCK OUT. If there’s anything that will test my resolve, the fact that my roommate’s putting up our Christmas lights this weekend will be it. I’ll keep you posted.

I got locked out of my dorm room the other night

I knew just as I was closing the door that something was missing, but it wasn’t until I heard that little click of finality and had half-turned to go to the bathroom that I thought, OH GOD NO. I was standing there in my Happy Bunny pajamas and dollar store flip-flops. I had nothing but my pink toothbrush and Spongebob toothpaste. My hair was doing things I didn’t even know it was capable of. And I was locked out.

I thought it over. My roommate was out somewhere. I had no way to contact her, because my phone was in the room. I was going to have to find the resident advisor on duty. So I jogged down to my RA’s room, where they have this cute little chart with Velcro markers that tell you who’s on duty that night. There were two. One was my sort-of crush Calvin’s RA. I could just picture Calvin finding me wandering confusedly around his hall with my Spongebob toothpaste and Happy Bunny PJs.

Needless to say, this story ends with me going to the other RA and knocking on the door of a person who was not actually an RA at all.

P.S. In keeping up with my “No Christmas Carols Until After Thanksgiving” pledge, I have created the No Christmas Carols Jar. If I listen to even one line of “Frosty the Snowman,” I have to put in a dollar. This is a whole new level of self-discipline.

P.P.S. STARKID CONCERT TOMORROW HOLY CRAP.