Thursday, April 15, 2010

Mainly the Blumpkins

I have a question so I might as well ask it. Forewarning: this question will end in a period and not in the traditional question mark, but do not mistake it for a declaration, because it is really a question in disguise as a declaration, which means it is really just a question. It will also be written in all caps to suggest a strong sense of urgency and pissed-offness, and if you were just offended that I said the P-word, you might as well stop reading now because my question will in fact drop the F-bomb. Now that we've cleared that up, this is what I need to know:


I don't even know where to start, really. Wait. Yes I do. Blumpkins.

Blumpkin. Rhymes with pumpkin. I love pumpkins. I wish that this term I learned just 6 days ago had something to do with pumpkins. Because I love pumpkins. Pumpkins are so great. They're just pumpkins. They don't try to be anything else BUT pumpkins. Really I'm just trying to say "pumpkins" as much as I can to keep my mind from picturing a blumpkin. Because a blumpkin,my friends, has nothing to do with any pumpkins of any sorts.

I'm about to explain this, because it's just not possible that I am the only person out there who had not known that this specific type of action, an action that I had not even known existed, nonetheless practiced, had been been given its own personal term. If Webster thought "bootylicious" was definition-worthy, then blumpkin better sure as hell be. On a different note, if I AM the only person who had never heard this word until 6 days ago, THEN THANKS A LOT EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD FOR CLUING ME IN ON THE FACT THAT SIMPLY TAKING A SHIT ALONE ON THE TOILET HAS BECOME A THING OF THE PAST.

Nowadays, when a guy sits down to take a shit, he gets his dick sucked while he's doing it. And THAT, my friends and random 90-year-old woman who could possibly be reading this, is a blumpkin.

Two days after regretting ever asking, "What's a blumpkin?", I'm still in denial. It's just not possible. There's no way a girl would ever degrade herself that much. There's no way a guy would be horny while he's releasing feces into a bowl of water. There's no way that among the key words, "toilet," "excrement," and, "oral sex," someone decided that the perfect word for this would be B-LUMP-KIN. Blue pumpkin? Lumps on your cousin? Whose job is it to name intensely disturbing modern-age sexual acts and how do I get hired? But after reassuring myself that a blumpkin could not possibly be toilet-head, but maybe some kind of Harry Potter beverage, instead...I turned on my radio.


Wait, what was that?


A what?




Alas, I had heard correctly. Not only are blumpkins legit, but apparently play a large role in our pop culture, also. Perhaps the iPad progressed us well into the future at hand, but I don't think that makes up for the billions of years we just erased in tracing back to the nut-busting-methods of cavemen.

2010 Translation: "Be my barbarian, baby. I shit. You suck."

I like to think that all parents are old-fashioned, ridiculously reluctant to accepting change, and ignorant of the ways in which social norms have changed from when they were our age. I like to "know" that if I ever become a parent, I am going to be open to whatever my kids claim is normal for people their age to do, because mine sure as hell don't believe me. However, I've been pondering this recently, and these "norms" are steadily growing worse and worse, which leads me to believe that if I ever do became someone's mother, and I'm going to stick with my "modern mother" fantasy, this is what it is going to be like:

"Mom! Can I go over to Mr. Mac's house?"

"Mr. Mac? Your History teacher?"


"What? Why? When I was your age, it was inappropriate to go over to a male teacher's house, especially if he invited you. That was just unheard of."

"No, no, no! He's having our entire class over to his house tonight!"

"Oh? Well what for?"

"To shoot up heroin!"


"And then have a giant orgy!"


"Yeah! He said we're all gonna get really fucked up, screw each other, then put the pictures on facebook!"


"But Mommmmmm...every other kid's parents are letting them go! It's what teenagers do now."

"Oh. Silly me. I'm sorry, honey, this is all just so new to me. Back in my day, we thought that performing oral sex on a male while he emptied his bowels was risque!"

"HAHAHA that is SOOOOOO not a big deal! I give blumpkins every day! And the other day I got eaten out while I was taking a piss!"

"Ah, you'll have to forgive your old mother. I'm just not as cool as my daughter anymore. Nonetheless, make sure to say "thank you" to Mr. Mac for his heroin. And for his penis."

"Oh, of course I will. Thanks, Mom! You're awesome!"

"I know, sweetie."

Oh how I am looking forward to that day.

Aside from blumpkins, I heard the other day on the radio that Rihanna said she wrote "Rude Boy" for her boyfriend. I did not even know Rihanna had a boyfriend, but I can imagine what he thought when she told him she wrote a song about him.

"I wrote a song about you today, baby."

"Really? You are the best. What is it called? "Love of My Life?" "Soulmate?" "You're The Only One I Could Ever Truly Be Happy With Because You're So Fucking Awesome?" "

"Close. It's called "Rude Boy." "

"Rude Boy?"

"Want me to sing it to you?"

"Of course, baby."

"Come here, rude boy, boy, can you get it up? Come here, rude boy, boy, is you big enough?"

Am I the only one who would be incredibly offended if this was the chorus to the song the person I was dating wrote about me?

"Natasha, my love, I wrote a song about you today."

"Sing it to me!"

"Alright, sugar-pie-honey-bunch-pumpkin-poo, this is my song about our undying, ever-lasting, never-ending love:

"Ay Bitch, suck my dick, right from beneath
Quit using dem teeth
It hurts like hell
Hey what's that smell?"

It's basically the same thing. And the sad thing is, that song would make millions if it were put on the radio right now. The fact that this is the kind of shit that the majority of Americans can relate to is the same kinda shit that makes me want to move to Australia and shoot blow guns with the Aboriginies, instead. Though I'm sure they give blumpkins, too.

On top of all that, I read an article about how spanking apparently is not a beneficial way to punish your children. Okay, okay...I'm seeing some hope now for our future...we're actually realizing that beating children may not be the best way to let them know that crying in public is not acceptable...okay, okay this is good...

until I read the comments that people responded to the article with.

One person took the liberty to inform us that while she and her siblings got "whoopings from Daddy," her cousins were punished with time-outs and getting grounded. Then she goes on to conclude that the "Daddy whoopings" are what led her and her siblings to become very successful, and the reason that her cousins have been "in and out of prison" and "addicted to drugs" is because they had to stay home for a week when they did something wrong instead of getting their ass repeatedly touched. She ended it with "Daddy made the right choices." Wow! I really respect your opinion when you're well into your 30's and still call your father 'Daddy!' You sick freak.

THEN, someone else decided to bring the Bible into it.

Do not withhold correction from a child,
For if you beat him with a rod, he will not die.
You shall beat him with a rod,
And deliver his soul from hell. --- Proverbs 23:13-14

WHAT THE HELL. I guess I would have known that physically abusing children had been condoned by Da Lawd if I had ever read the Bible, but since I have not, this came as quite a shock. However, I do know that "religion and politics" are the two things never to talk about, so I am going to stop there, and end with my first response of WHAT THE HELL.

This same woman ended her comment with "My parents love me good." Again, WOW. I am definitely going to agree with whatever point you make now that I know you dropped out of the third grade.

I'm not saying that I hate my generation, or that I hate my country, or that I hate a good spanking. All I'm saying is that some things need to be left usaid. Unsung. And undone. Mainly the blumpkins.

Long Live Where's Waldo

Summer is almost here, and you know what that means.


Alright, so maybe you didn't know what that means. In fact, I'm sure you had no idea, and if you were to guess, comic book club wouldn't be your last guess, because it wouldn't be a guess of yours at all. I mean, sure, summer can mean a lot of things: swimming, sunshine, rainbows, four-leaf clovers, pots of gold, red balloons, (I never really understood why red balloons are one of the featured marshmallows...are they lucky? irish-oriented? worshipped by red-headed-6-inch-men? General Mills really needs to explain that, or at least let us know what they were thinking or what they were on when they decided that red balloons blended perfectly with Irish stereotypes. I think a pint-of-beer-shaped marshmallow would be much more fitting, but that's not kid-friendly, which is why I don't work for General Mills. Because I would get fired.), but to me, summer mainly means CBC. Yes, there is even an acronym for it. (C-comic. B-book. C-Club, in case you're one of the slower folk; I like to make everyone feel included. I am so nice!)

CBC all began with the confession of a love for comic books and the action of a friend throwing his entire collection in the back seat of my car one night for no particular reason but to share the joy. And believe me, the joy. WAS SHARED. In forms of G.I. Joe animations, it was shared. It was at that moment that three friends became much more than friends, but became founders. Founders of a club that would take place every Wednesday for the rest of the summer. Of course, there were always complications.

"Our FIRST Comic Book Club meeting! The tradition has begun! No one can stop us! Nothing can get in our way! We are founding fathers of a club that will last throughout the ages! GO GO GADGET COMIC BOOK CLUB!"

"Uh...Dean can't make it."


"He's going to his grandparent's for the day for his grandpa's birthday."

"But he's a founder."

"But he can't make it."

"He's also our only other member."

"We could just wait until next week?"






"I mean...we haven't even had a meeting technically it hasn't even begun."


"I think you mean begin..."


"Dean's gonna be pissed."

"No. He'll be fine."

"No. He's gonna be pissed. He's a FOUNDER, and this is our FOUNDING meeting. What if Samuel Adams couldn't make it that day to sign the Declaration of Independence?"

"I'm sure we would still be independent considering the fact that a shit ton of other people signed that thing."

"YEAH, but he wouldn't have a BEER named after him, WOULD HE."



"Okay, so no Comic Book Club today?"

"What? Of COURSE we're having Comic Book Club! Dean's gonna be pissed, but you're gonna be pissed if we DON'T have it..."

"Very true."




Okay, so we never really chanted "C-B-C" because this isn't some Mighty Ducks movie, but we did go without one of our founders, and since we found it to be quite pathetic to have a "club" that consisted of two people (which could have been cool since I'm sure we would have made history that way - the first duo pathetic enough to call themselves a "club" because they have no other friends), and who were related nonetheless, making it even more pathetic, we decided to randomly invite a third person.

"KYLE! Welcome to...Comic Book Club!"

"Uh hey guys. So, what do you guys do in Comic Book Club?"



"We go to a comic book store."

"And then we buy a comic."

"And THEN..."

"Then we go to another comic book store..."

"And then we buy another comic..."



"And then we go read them somewhere."


"Is that it?"

"What do you mean 'is that it?' "

"You buy a comic, go and read it, and then it's over?"

"NO...then we do the same thing next Wednesday!"



What started out as "beginner's lack of luck" turned into "it happened another damn time" when Founder Dean went out of town, then resulting into a third ridiculous mishap, which turned into Comic Book Club becoming more of What Random Person Will We Fool This Wednesday Into Thinking They're Actually A Part of A Serious Foundation. Which made it even better. And one of them even stuck with us, creating a club now consisting of a total of FOUR. MEMBERS. We were ecstatic. Our dream was coming true. Soon, every guest we invited had already heard of us, and had already been fantasizing about "The Phone Call" from a CBC member inviting them to the next meeting. We were famous. We were founders. We were gods.

"Hello, is this Mr. Johnny Rochester?"

" this C---no, no it can't be. Nevermind. Yes, this is Johnny."

"Well, Johnny, today is your lucky day. You have been cordially invited to this afternoon's Comic Book Club. Would you like to be our featured guest for the afternoon?"
(The last question, we soon realized, was completely unnecessary, and therefore we eventually stopped asking it.

(Quotation may or may not not be verbatim.)

"Well then, the CBC-mobile will pick you up in 15 minutes!"
(CBC-mobile may or may not just be my '98 Volvo.)
(It serves many purposes.)
(Like the Batmobile.)
(But better. 'Cause it's the mutha-fukin' CBC-mobile.)

(Quotation may or may not have ever even been said.)

Following "The Phone Call," The Guest would climb into my car (climbing is mandatory when it comes to getting into my car. I am like Oscar the Grouch, but with a larger, misshapen trash can that is often mistaken for some kind of Sudan.) and, as long as they had 5 bucks (for the comic, not for me, though chauffeuring fees were once considered), become part of a tradition that has not only not been forgotten, but is now on literary record. This may possibly lead to war with our arch nemeses, Card Collectors, but until that day, we shall continue to fuel our superpowers through strong imaginations and leather-suit-obsessions.

Of course, spending between 4 dollars and 20 dollars every week became an obstacle due to the fact that none of us were employed and we were all frugal people to begin with. (Yes, I do understand that 20 dollars could buy me novels that would last me weeks, but I trace this all to my past: I was a picture-book-kinda-kid, not the "chapter book"-I'm-a-show-off-cause-every-other-page-in-my-book-has-a-big-number-at-the-top-of-it-kinda-kid. Screw Goosebumps. Long live Where's Waldo.) So, after a month or so of expanding our personal comic collections and boasting about who had more (Nerd? WORD.), Comic Book Club then evolved into Random Shit Club, as long as the random shit was purchased at a comic book store. (We didn't want to stray too far from our original theme.)

I, feeling like we were betraying the Comic Book Gods up in Olympus somewhere, stuck with the comics, while Dean and my sister skipped along to "greener" pastures, pastures filled with none other than: TOYS. No longer did our club only have 4 members! (Not that 4 is not a great, huge, prime-club number.) It now had SIX more. (Six plus four is what? TEN THAT'S WHAT SUCK IT CBC RULES.)

Our 6 members were highly appreciated, if not worshipped, by Dean, my sister, and me. The first extra ingredient to the concoction was Trinity. Trinity didn't add much to conversation, since she was a doll, but we all understood her pain. On top of losing the love of her life, Neo, she herself was no longer alive, and whatever pill brought her to Barbie life I'm sure was one that had been slipped into her drink, not a choice offered by Morphius. We never brought up such sore subjects, though, since she did have a gun glued to her hand and could aim it anywhere, since she was gifted with double joints. Later, we think, she went through some kind of mental breakdown, for she never once complained about Dean taking off her tiny clothes and setting her naked atop the dashboard. (She needed a tan. We needed lives.)

Serving as foils to the timid Trinity were all five of our other members: Kevin, Brian, AJ, Howie, and Nick. If you were a kid in the 90's, or a man with highlights in the 90's, then no, this is no coincidence. Dean had learned to accept the cheesy tunes that were sometimes played/blasted in my car. This acceptance of my volvo's musical nostalgia erupted into a dominance. Shamelessly belting out to everybod-ay to rock their bod-ay and asking the people if they could see, see how their love is affecting our reality (listening to this again at the age of 18, I realized that "wishin' I could thank you in a dif-fer-ent way" does NOT mean saying "thanks" instead of "thank you," which is how 10-year-old-Natasha had interpreted it) soon morphed into forming a deep emotional grasp with showing someone the meaning of being lonely and finally understanding that it really doesn't matter who you are, where you're from, or what you did. You could be a Chip 'n' Dale's dancer from the fiery pits of Mordor who was breast fed by your mom until you were 23, because none of that matters, as long as you love me.

I feel ridiculous even taking the finger-tip-muscles to say this, but I must keep in mind that some people who read things on the internet are the kind of people who sit in their parent's basement and never leave, and therefore would not understand what I have been talking about for an entire paragraph. BACKSTREET BOYS. Google 'em, you sad, sad, bunch.

Enough. The moral of the story is to not neglect your inner nerd. Your inner nerd must be fed, and nourished, and it must schedule a meeting with itself once a week to be unleashed. The Summer of '09 has forever been marked as The Unleashing of the Inner Nerds. It has been 3 seasons now that this inner nerd has been suffocated, but this summer, IT SHALL RISE AGAIN!

Thursday, April 8, 2010

The Curse of Room 324

Well, my assumption was true. The reason my 4-person dormitory has only been assigned to two people for this entire semester (two out of four is half for all of you beauty school drop-outs) was not luck. Or a fluke. Or good fortune. Good karma, maybe, since it is true that I never lie, cheat, steal, kill, say 4-letter words, or tell little kids there is no North Pole and that Mommy is lying when she says you are the best kid in the world because there's no way she could even know that because if she took the time to get to know every little kid in the entire world then she wouldn't be doing her job as a good mother to you, anyway. No. The fact that I've had a total of FIVE roommates pack their bags from Room 324 and since then no one else has stepped through that threshold is no example of serendipity.

"I heard that the Residence Director intentionally didn't move anyone else into your dorm."
That's my neighbor, highly informative.

"What? Where'd you hear that?"
That's me, highly clueless.

"What? You didn't know?"
Same neighbor, highly amused.

"No, I didn't KNOW! What are you talking about? Where'd you hear that? Is that true?"
Same me, highly curious.

"He told your roommate that today. She told me. He said he just decided that he wasn't even going to test it."
Still my neighbor, apparently knowing it all.

"I knew it! I KNEW it! I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT!"
Still me, saying I knew it but really not knowing it.

I did kind of know it though. James my RD had been a witness to countless Roommate-Rumbles throughout the first semester, all which somehow made it seem like whatever the dilemma was was all MY fault and that I'M the bad guy and I'M the reason 5 girls have ran out of this place, never to be seen again. Which explains the next thing I heard from my neighbor:

"He said your place is cursed."





"Like, a curse?"


"Like, there's a curse on it?"

"Like, you cursed it."

"I cursed it?"

"You cursed it."

"I cursed it?"

"You cursed it."



"Well that's just ridiculous."

"You're the only one left of the original 4, which makes you the---"


"Well, I was gonna say "survivor" but that works, too."


Let's look back, shall we? Let's look back at What Went Wrong: Room 324 Style. Then we can decide whose fault it was that girls with a serious lack of stability and people-skills were thrown into my life at random.


Janet was a hard-core Jesus-lover who assumed I was a Satanist because I dressed in black. (I do not know this for sure, but I'm pretty sure I'm right based on the fact that every week she insisted that every roommate attend church with her. Every roommate except me. Call yourself a good Christian, do ya? Well I got some news for you, you poser. "Be good to thy neighbor" does NOT mean, "But you can be shitty with the people you actually live with.")

Did she move out because I broke her lamp?
No. Everyone falls from time to time and that time I happened to fall into her lamp.

Did she move out because I refused to pick up the broken glass that appeared after I broke her lamp?
No. I did not remember ever breaking her lamp in the first place and therefore I saw no point in cleaning it up. However, I did end up cleaning it up after being informed that I really was the one who broke it, which made me regret screaming, "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT" at her the day before.

Did she move out because I added a fifth resident to our dorm without informing her?
No. I did not know she was highly allergic to cats and a kitten is not a cat anyway and therefore I am innocent and she is guilty.

Did she move out because I stopped calling her "Janet" and started calling her "MOTHER?"
No. A mother is a highly respected figure in our culture and she could have taken it as a compliment. Also, she had decided to wake me up in the middle of my nap to "have an emergency roommate meeting," which really meant her bitch at me about cleaning up that damn lamp. I was in the middle of recovery while I was sleeping, and had not completed such recovery when she awoke me, which meant me being a very angry person without being able to control it. Screaming and yelling and name-calling ("mother" on its own as well as "mother" with many words after it) and me challenging her religious morals were all involved, but this cannot be why she moved out because I later calmly explained that I would not lash out like that unless she interrupts my recovery again. She agreed that she would not.


Did Cleo move out because I ate her ice cream?
No. Cleo did not move out because I ate her ice cream because once she discovered that I had treated myself for being such a delightful roommate to her, she bought a lock-box, filled it with ice cream, and stuck it in the freezer. Not only that, she bought a transparent lock-box just to cruelly taunt the hell out of me. I would have preferred her putting her thumb on her nose and wiggling her fingers at me while saying "Nanny nanny boo boo," but Cleo would never do such a thing, because Cleo had an "anxiety problem," also known as 24/7 BITCH MODE.

Did Cleo move out because I made her cry?
No. Did I physically reach into her eyeballs and extract water vapor? Did I spray her with mace? Did I spit into her pupils just to make it look like she was crying? No. All I did was have a conversation with her in front of our Residence Director and she started crying, which of course made ME look like the bitch, when really I had just as much of a reason to cry as she did, but I have a little thing called DIGNITY. I also don't cave when people cry, it only makes me madder. Did I know she was going to cry even harder when I told her that her crying was pathetic and to quit the act? Do I sound like a mean person right now? Well guess what.



Kate was awesome. Kate was my best friend. Kate was the other pea in that pod of ours, but she, too, moved out. That's as sappy as I get, and I'm still not straying from my point of NOT MY FAULT.


I chose the pseudonym "Danielle" because it's close to the name "Danny" as in "Danny DeVito" as in the girl looked like The Penguin from Batman Returns. Which is rude and irrelevant but at this point I really don't care. She was the first "newbie" we got, the first chance James the RD gave Room 324 to relieve itself of its bad reputation. But Room 324 is a lot like Joan Jett; it doesn't give a damn about its bad reputation. Danielle was gone after only a couple weeks.

Why she left, I do not know.

Was it because she always felt watched?
Look, maybe she always felt watched, but that was entirely her own fault. Hear me out. Outside my front door is where everyone used to sit. "Everyone" as in me, my roommate, and our 4 neighbors, as well as a couple people who lived below us, and a couple people from across campus. That's quite a lot of people - quite a lot of people loitering in the only convenient place Danielle could go out to smoke. But instead of joining the border of the circle we had created, making an ever bigger but less round kind of shape, Danielle found it easier to push through our circular ruins, subconsciously inspired by Jorge Luis Borges, and stand in the very middle. Themiddle. THE MIDDLE. Are you listening? Are you comprehending this? Are you picturing this? A circle of people with one penguin-clone standing in the very middle, smoking, and not saying a word to any of us. I do not know what she was trying to accomplish with this tactic, but if it was everyone having nowhere to look except at the different angles of her body (depending on where each of us was seated and which direction she was facing), then she accomplished it.


Ah...Mariah. I hardly even knew her, and yet I don't even know where to begin.

Did she move out because I got her weed confiscated?
Okay, let me explain myself: 1) I did not know "you could put your weed in thereeeee" and 2) IT WAS A COMPLETE ACCIDENT. I had come back to Chattanooga from a weekend at home, only to realize I had left my key at my house 2 hours away. So. I had to get an office worker to come open my door. So. The office worker was an uptight-prude who "noticed a smell" when she walked into my dorm, then noticed that the smell "smelled like smoke" then after telling me 47 times that smoking was NOT allowed in the dorms, and after me telling her 48 times that OBVIOUSLY IT WASN'T ME SINCE I WAS GONE ALL WEEKEND HELLOOOOO DIMWIT YOU HAD TO LET ME IN, REMEMBER?, she then noticed "a smoking device?!" on the table in our living room, and then informed me that she had to confiscate it. After picking it up like it was a hot skillet that weighed 2 tons, she then asked me to come with her.


"Because I'm confiscating it."

" why do I have to confiscate with you?"

"Because you have to sign for it."

"But it's not mine."

"There's no smoking allowed in here."

"Yes, thank you, I know."

"And you have to sign for this smoking device."

"But it's not mine."

"I'm sorry, you're going to have to come with me. You will get it returned at the end of the semester after it's been inspected."

So after signing for that damn thing and after hearing her completely blow me off every time I told her it WASN'T MINE ("You'll get it returned later. You'll get it back. You do not need to worry. You'll get your smoking device at the end of the semester. You're not allowed to have this. I don't believe you when you say it's not yours. I'm going to automatically decide you're lying even though I don't even know you. I'm a C-word that rhymes with 'blunt.' "), I left. I left that office and that dimwit and that sheet with my signature on it claiming it to be mine because she forced me to do so. And then I return to my dorm only to find a frantic Mariah and her frantic friend.

"Where's our weed?! Where's our weed?!"

"Uh...I don't know where your weed it. Sorry."

"It was on the table! It was just right here on the table when we left!"

"Woah well I'm glad it's NOT because an office worker was just in here."

"Did she take it?! Damnit did she take our weed?"

"No, she just took the "smoking device" that was on the table."

"Our weed is in there!"


"There's two or three rolled-up joints in the bottom of it!"

"Ha...ha...okay just go down and sign for it because I just signed my name for that shit."

"I can't! I could get kicked out of school!"

"Then have your friend do it."

"Sorry, man, I'm on probation. I can't get in trouble with my probation officer, man."

I wanted to SCREAM. I just signed for possession of an illegal drug of a roommate I never talked to and a girl I'd never even met. And they wouldn't go sign their own fucking names for their own fucking pot. But, freaking out would not have convinced them otherwise. And so, I bullshitted.

"Oh, well I told her that it wasn't mine, and she said that once whoever's it was came down and claimed it, they'd give it back."

"Oh, good!"

"Cool, man. That means we can still get high."

"Yeah, so you should go do that. Right now."

"Right now?"

"Yeah uh the office is closing in like 10 minutes."
More bullshit.

"Yeah and they're "inspecting" it tomorrow if no one claims it tonight."
Hello, I'm a bullshitter!

"Okay then I'll go get it now!"

"Okay! Good luck!"

"Good luck?"

"Uh I go girl!"

Whether or not they got it back I'll never know. I locked myself in my room and only opened the door the six times Mariah's friend knocked on my door, standing there in her bra, asking me to come drink vodka with her, "just us two," WHATEVER THE HELL THAT MEANS.

The next week Mariah was gone. I knew she was gone because her mini-fridge was nowhere in sight and because someone had gone through my bedroom, spilled all of my drinks onto my desk, and stolen 6 of my cigarettes. What is it with people? First my kitten then my cigarettes? I don't understand why stealing mail is such a big deal. If you ask me, kittens and cigarette theft should be 600 years in jail, tops. (No, that was not a typo. I did not mean sixty, I meant six-hundred, and I still mean it. Quit wondering about it or I'll change my mind to six thousand.)

And now, it is only me and my badass roommate, who had some bad previous-roommate-experiences of her own. And this situation, I don't consider luck. Or a fluke. Or good fortune. Or some example of serendipity. It's good karma is what it fucking is. Because an entire bedroom all to ourselves, fully-dressed guests, a lock-box-free freezer and actually enjoying the company of the people you live with is exactly what the both of us deserve. Next step: reliving the kitten days.