A/N: This is one of my older works. (By older, I mean like three years or so.) It was originally written as an essay for my English Comp. 2 class during my second year in college. . . which is coincidentally the year before I dropped out. Meh. Anyways, I found it the other day and decided that it entertained me beyond belief so I decided to post it. I mean, it's sure to give someone else a good giggle, right? Oh, and I should say that it's a true story so yay for you, you get a tiny look into what makes up me. Oh, and you know you want to review. -lurves-


Roommates, Anyone?

Having roommates is a bad idea. Rooming with your friends is an even worse idea. Moving into the dubbed "crack-house" with the friends that your parents never wanted you hanging out with in the first place is probably the worst idea you could conjure on your own. With the whole excited, waving raised hand thing, I gladly admit that I was the smart one to do just this. I've just got to say, for the record, that living with people marred me for life.

I always liked saying that I knew what I was doing, and that I had everything under control. Unfortunately, to be able to say this, I've got to lie most of the time. Proof could be brought from the fact that I didn't know what all happened in that house until after I moved out. All I knew was that it gave me an ominous feeling when my boss regarded me one day at work, head cocked to the side in wonder and said simply, "You're what's keeping them all alive."

I had three roommates: roommate J., T., and F. To say the least, they all fell into the category of odd ducks. Roommate J. wanted a summer getaway for him and his girlfriend; T. couldn't keep clean to save his life; F., conveniently enough, could only be described as "falling". The funny thing was, before all this, I simply knew them all as the fun group. Fun couldn't even begin to describe how they've affected my life. I managed to keep up two full time jobs and at the same time keep up with two college courses. Needless to say, by the end of the week I was running on my absolute last resolves of energy. J. managed to pay his portion of the utilities once every few months, while T. was on the verge of topping over into an oblivion of debt, and F. felt we had moral obligations to keep her living high because we near picked her off the streets as her friend and took her in with no job, no car, nor money to speak of. She forgot to tell us that she too was going off the edge before she moved her stuff in and tried to down a bottle of aspirin. Oops. With all the dramas that my roommates tended to get themselves into mixed with the nightly parties, that left me to look after the living expenses such as rent, utilities, and the occasional grocery store visit.

Nothing can really say the horror clearly like the day that I found my limit with everyone I lived with. Somehow, I had grown accustomed to coming home to a trashed house with random drunk people slung anywhere there was open space, but when I walked in at a swanky, bright and early seven in the morning, only two that I could see had made themselves at home. Downgrade on the party, score! Mohawk, because I never did learn his real name though he was a regular at the house, had passed out spread eagle on the kitchen floor with a puddle of upchuck lying under him. The other guy was in a little bit better condition; he was just hugging our loveseat, seemingly oblivious to the world. Aren't people great?

I went through my normal morning actions—step over the guy on the floor to get to the fridge for a soda, grab the towel off the fridge handle while I'm at it and throw it at Mohawk, hustle over to my room, and slam the door shut. It was a normal, everyday thing . . . as long as you lived in the crack-house. I'd just sat down to boot up the computer to start on that day's homework and cracked open my soda when the very distinct sound of running water hit my ears. I looked over at my fish, Doomass, because it was the only thing I could think of. After all, the bathroom and kitchen were all the way across the house. Doomass was a male beta fish that I had acquired during a random Wal-Mart trip with roommate T. a month after moving into the crack-house. I had been going on three days without sleep and T. had been nursing a five leafed, illegal substance the hour before so instead of bringing home groceries, we brought home a Doomass. Somehow, he came to torture my cat, capture my heart, and live his rather simple life in a small lamp bowl on my desk.

"You don't have a running tank," I told Doomass while simultaneously tapping on the glass bowl holding the poor beta. "Something spring a leak?" Understatement of the year but, hey, who cared? I was talking to a fish that made his residence on my desk and for some odd reason I don't think he'd tell on me.

You ever hear of how curiosity killed the cat? Well, I'm very feline like sometimes. What I should have done was gone to bed like I really needed to and chalked everything up to lack of sleep and the inevitable fact that I was slowly losing my mind. I didn't though; I went and investigated the mysterious tinkling noise. Fortunately, I didn't have to go far to find the source. I just had to open the door and say hi to the couch-hugging guy peeing on my floor. My mouth hung agape, eyes wide in horror, all the while, the green eyed demon merely grinned at me in his drunken stupor. I was so stunned that I forgot that punching people in the face upon making a first acquaintance isn't the most polite way to say hello as I did just that before jumping over the man to dive bomb into T.'s bed to shake him awake, screaming profanity all the while.

The couch hugging drunk guy probably didn't remember a thing when he woke up with a throbbing headache, a swollen jaw, and covered in his own pee but I'll never forget him or that morning. You see, I learned that sometimes your parents aren't just making stuff up and that sometimes you've got to admit with a shake of the head that you don't have a handle on everything. Scarred, marred, but in an odd way just a little bit better off from a lesson well learned, I left my roommates to their own whims. Apparently, I wasn't very good at keeping them all alive. Oh the well.