This morning, I woke up to find my roommate stuffing something into the coffee machine.
It was his dirty sock that had been festering on the ground for a week, and now it is the coffee filter.
High schoolers love to dream about the freedom of college, and college grads love to reminisce about their days of fooling around.
Personally, the price of freedom has not been worth it. A week in a North Avenue apartment, in the company of other college students learning the same lesson, has been confirmation the benefits of a solitary lifestyle.
As one might learn, living alone is far superior as the only boundaries that you have to respect are your own.
It is the small things that irk me, like using the Brita just to the point where they do not have to be the one to refill it.
When this happens, I lose my faith in my roommates, one drop at a time. While on the topic of faith, it’s how no one believes in the rag classifications between dish drying, hand drying, and counter cleaning.
Why would anyone use the same cloth to both wipe their hands and dry a dish?
I would much prefer a routine order of existing in solitude rather than listening to someone stumble back into their apartment after a long night of partying and try to hack their lungs up.
These days, any form of air leaving the mouth, other than breathing, is seen as a socially taboo activity, and my roommates love to toe the line of social boundaries.
Regarding social boundaries, people should learn to read social cues especially for the roommates that peel themselves off the asphalt after hitting a small divot on their electric skateboards and deplete my first aid supplies.
The gauze and Neosporin were just for decoration and virtue signaling, not for actual use, Lucas.
I wish for a life where I would not have to worry about the piles and piles of tupperware and silverware soaking in the depths of the sink.
There would only be one of everything: one plate, one utensil, and most importantly, one of me.
No longer would I have to choke down my roommates’ carbonized food and wheeze out “oh, that’s really interesting.”
It is a Herculean effort to prepare quality meals only to watch the food vanish. And since everyone thinks it is alright to handle my 8 and ½ inch 600s Miyabi carbon steel kitchen knife, I suppose that every rare family heirloom is an open invitation to wildly wave around.
My optimal situation, however, would be that all my amenities and appliances are all within two steps of each other: my toilet, bed, and sink. These days, there is too much emphasis on decorations and decor.
Rather than trying to impress others, I prefer a minimalist concrete slate which is much easier to simply wipe down and occasionally scratch the date into.
I would be a freeform artist; the wall would be my canvas, and my finger would be my brush.
This lifestyle is a personal freedom, and I could also do away with meal prep and cooking for others.
I would much rather prefer my food slopped onto my tray for immediate consumption.
Personally, there has been too much hubbub about the pros of natural light and its benefits for mental health.
I like a routine on-off schedule of tungsten beams to beat bright reminders onto my eyelids to wake up.
When people ask what it is like having roommates, I say the best part is the silence in my room after the door closes.
I would rather live in jail than live another day here.