SIngle White Females

Okay, this post title is a lie. Well, at the very least, it is misleading. I have had many, many roommates in my life, starting with my little sister and continuing right on up through this year. Many (most?) of them have been odd, a few have been total freaks, a very few have remained my best friends in the whole wide world. But, thank God, none of them have stolen my identity, fallen in love with me, or tried to have me killed. I like to think that that's a pretty good track record.



I mean, I, clearly, am the perfect roommate. I never do anything annoying, like date 45 year old South Bend police officers and bring them around the dorm room while my roommate is passed out on the couch deathly ill on a Saturday night, surrounded by tissues and blankets and watching a ridiculous movie (My Big Fat Greek Wedding) and most emphatically not in the mood to be joined by your creepy cop boyfriend while he waits for you to get ready for the evening. I also don't make a federal case out of it when someone eats all my cheese, although I did once read my roommate the riot act after finding out that she ate the last of my bread and eggs, and I'd been planning on making French Toast and I had no other food in the apartment because my mother and sister were visiting and I'd been staying with them but then they left and it was Easter Sunday and for some reason no stores were open and I had been planning on making french toast and HOW HARD IS IT TO NOT EAT SOMEONE ELSE'S FOOD? Yeesh, I'm still angry about that.

So this time, it's adios to the roommate life. I'm striking out on my own. I found a delightful studio and I am making the leap! Sure, I have no furniture. And sure, this means I'll have to kill any bugs I might find on my own (but I already do that, so INBD). But it also means for the first time in my life, I have my own bathroom. If it's a mess, it's my mess. Same for the kitchen. No more having to wash someone else's dirty dishes before I can cook my dinner. If there are dishes in the sink, they're my dishes. No more keeping a running tally of how many cans of Diet Coke are mine in the fridge, and how many belong to my roommate, and whether's she drank one of mine or I drank one of hers. If there's Diet Coke in the fridge (and believe me, there is always Diet Coke in the fridge) it's MY DIET COKE. Does life get any better than that?