Dorm Stories: The Manic-Depressive and the Psychopath

Junior year of college I roomed with a good friend (who remains my friend to this day!) and two people we did not know very well. We got a great draw number, and decided to room with the two girls we didn’t really know because they were moving out at semester to study abroad. We were planning on swapping them out with our two friends (Ashley, studying in Italy, and Chelsea) when they returned. It was an idea situation – we picked a huge apartment on a bluff overlooking the ocean, a huge kitchen and dining room, huge living room, large bathroom and two large bedrooms.

See the picture from my bedroom window:

sunset from my bedroom, nbd

Yep, that’s an actual photo from my room in that very apartment. Jealous much?

Seemingly ideal. In fact, even though I was wary about living with the two new girls, it started out just fine. We got along, chatted into the night, and I was starting to feel like this was going to be the greatest year ever. And oh, so quickly how that changed.

The first roommate quickly showed that she was a manic-depressive. She would go on these crazy bouts of highs – where she wanted to be bff and braid my hair and go out all night and everything was super fun and awesome! We would laugh and talk and sing, make plans, and then one day I came home and it was all different. She was dark, moody, crying in her room – I assumed she was just going through a tough time, tried to be nice, but then again I didn’t know her super well. Then she stopped cleaning up after herself – leaving piles of dishes and cups and whatnot in the living room and kitchen. She taped black and white photographs to the walls in the hallway, and left her laundry all over the couches in the living room.

Then one day I came home and she had transformed the living room into her bedroom. She was lying down face first on the couch, in the dark, on a school day (did I mention she didn’t have a job and I hardly ever saw her go to class?) she sighed audibly and announced that she had no friends – her grades sucked, and she didn’t see the point in ever leaving the living room. Which was awesome for those of us trying to share that space (sensing my sarcasm?).

Did I mention there was a cat? Fluffy was a little white bitch of a cat that the psychopath roommate brought home one day. Without asking any of us, of course, to live in our apartment. With her litter box in the bathroom. That the psychopath determined we should all share responsibility for cleaning. Now, not to be a total bitch about it, but I didn’t ask for a cat, didn’t want it around and sure as hell wasn’t going to clean up its poop from the bathroom.

However, it wasn’t the cat that was the ultimate issue that caused people to scream, cry and eventually move out – it was flowers.

In retrospect, I probably didn’t handle the situation very well – and have since learned to control my temper a bit. I am not proud of what transpired, but I can’t change the past.

My roommate, the psychopath with the cat, was given flowers. She put them in a pretty vase on the kitchen table, and they were gorgeous until they died. And she left them there. And left them there. Annoyed, I asked her politely to throw them out and wash the vase. She assured me she would. And yet, another week went by. Do you happen to know what happens to flowers when they die? They leave a wretched stench. After asking her again and again, I put the flowers into a paper bag and left them by the door for her to take to the dumpster. But she of course, did not. Even when I asked repeatedly.

One afternoon I came home and the manic-depressive was face first in the couch, there were dishes everywhere, cat litter all over the bathroom and the damn flowers were still by the door. At that point, I lost it. I put the flowers into her empty bedroom (in the bag of course) and closed the door.

Later that evening, she called a roommate meeting. Here is what went down:

Her: We need to talk about the cleaning.

Me: Yep. You need to clean up after the cat.

Her: We should take turns.

Me: It’s not my cat. I’m not cleaning up its shit.

Her: Well, we should address the flowers. I feel that your behavior was violent, and frankly I feel threatened for my life.

Me: Over flowers?

Her: You are a very violent person.

Me: You are a fucking psychopath.

At that point, she got up went to her room and slammed the door. Fuming, I stewed in my rage in the living room, my roommate and the manic-depressive were too freaked out to move. Ten minutes later she emerged with a tiny rolling pink suitcase dragging behind her. She paused, flipped her hair and exclaimed in the EXACT tone of a soap opera actress, “I’m going home!”

To which I responded, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out!”

Again, I didn’t say I was proud of my actions. Either way I was happy to see them go – the next semester was far more of an adventure.

Dorm Stories: The Burrow

I know I have been lacking on the dorm stories, but in all reality, it’s simply because I have a lot to live up to. My brother’s awesome guest post on my blog (found here!) generated more hits and page views than ever in my whole entire history of blogging (since 2008). So thanks bro, for proving what I already knew – you’re an amazingly hilarious writer and storyteller.

So, my sophomore year of college continued, and second semester my roommates moved out and I had a lovely room all to myself, with a shared bathroom with Ashley. Our rooms were tiny, but I loved having the space to myself. It was so freeing. I know a lot of people hate to be alone, but I may be one of those freaks who loves it. I loved having my own space, watching whatever I wanted on TV, practicing my guitar without having to worry about waking someone up. To this day I still love to spend time alone. In New York one of my favorite activities was walking the streets of the city. I could go an entire day in the most populated city and not speak to a soul. It’s kind of magical.

All right, enough of the whimsical shit. My four best friends at the time lived together in an apartment approximately 100 feet from the door of my building. Their complex was old and run down, but they were thrilled because they were sophomores who got the luck of the draw and ended up in a full apartment. Didn’t matter that their oven didn’t work properly, or their carpet smelled like summer camp, they had it made in the shade. I got to be their unofficial 5^th roommate. Mostly because they tolerated my personality and let me cook food in their kitchen.

Let me paint a picture of the apartment. It was dark, halfway underground, with blue carpet and red furniture. There was a kitchen with laminate floors that were probably once white and now stained yellow. There was a bathroom (same floor) and two boxy bedrooms. Courtney had some sort of great hookup where she had two chairs, a couch and a massive TV entertainment system that was added to the apartment, and I think it just made the place feel more like home. Though I can’t even imagine how un-fun it was to move that in and out every year.  Each bedroom had a window almost at the ceiling that gave the picture perfect view of the ground above. Including the feet of students rushing to class, and the squirrels.

This apartment had an infestation problem when it came to squirrels. They were found in the kitchen, Gaby’s bed, the air vent and the bathroom. I’m pretty sure public safety on campus thought they were lying, because upon being called about a squirrel in the vent, they immediately asked, “have you ladies been smoking marijuana?” Gaby having to point out squirrel poop as evidence was a little much.

The best part about that place was the people. They even had a holiday card that year, from “The Burrow.” (We were cool kids, I swear). We had several parties, pre-parties, a rave, dinners, cryfests, but most of all I am pretty positive I never laughed more in my whole life than at The Burrow. Like, run to the bathroom because you may pee your pants kind of laughing. They lived in that place for three years – some roommates changed, but for the most part, my favorite memories from college are in that fantastic apartment.

Dorm Stories: The Sleep Screamer

Sophomore year of college I lived in a suite style dorm with three girls. There were two dorm rooms connected by a large bathroom that we all shared. My roommate was Violet*, and in the other room were Ashley* and Stacy.* Ashley and I went to high school together, and she knew Violet from work – when it came to finding a group to live with, we decided it could be fun to live together, and it totally was.

If you overlooked the fact that our rooms were tiny, and situated right above the “diner” themed cafeteria, (our room and all of our belongings had a deep smell of fried food) it was actually quite cute. However, to this day the smell of onion rings makes me gag. I now understand what people who work at fast food restaurants must feel like on a regular basis.

But back to the roommates: Violet and Stacy were possibly the most beautiful people on the planet. Tall, thin, beautiful skin, beautiful hair, they looked like they walked off of a runway and into our classroom. It simply wasn’t fair. However, while watching America’s Next Top Model one night, I lent Violet a pair of my heels and told her to walk down the hall as a “runway.” In the first three seconds I was about to launch an online campaign to get her onto the show, her foot shook, and then wobbled, and then she tripped and feel so horrendously hard on her face I was certain that I was going to be arrested for being the worst roommate in the history of the world. Luckily, she was laughing just as hard as I was. Despite her I’m sure, broken ankle.

Violet also had a hilarious habit of screaming talking in her sleep. I did not know this right away. It happened one night while I was sound asleep, and it went a little like this:

Violet: Hey!

Me: Rolling over confused. Harummmpshh?

Violet: (louder) Hey!

Me: What?! It’s 3am!

Violet: (now screaming) YOU FORGOT TO TURN LEFT! YOU NEED TO TURN LEFT!

At this point I realized she was talking in her sleep, something my little sister, that I shared a room with as a child, did fairly often. So I did what I used to do with her.

Me: Violet, you’re sleeping. Shut up.

And it totally worked. Turns out, it would work again, and again. Very regularly. I found it was almost like sleep talking for me, constantly telling Violet to shut up. God forbid someone bad came into my room and started talking before they got all rape/murder city up in my dorm. I’d probably just tell them to shut up and go back to bed. Luckily, no rapists or murderers were too excited to meander into the fast food restaurant that had become our dorm. Luckily.

But hey, it was college. Who needed to sleep?

What about you? Did you have roommates who did odd things in their sleep? What about roommates with bizarre habits?

Dorm Stories: A Guest Post by Michael

Though I may have some hilarious accounts of my life in college and my endless rotating door of roommates, my brother Michael takes the cake for craziest freshmen roommate story. Rather than trying to re-tell his story in my words, I let him author this post. Below is the account, in his words. Let me know if you would be interested in posting here – it ended up being a totally great experience!

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I had the odd fortune of having three roommates last year, my freshmen year in college. My first roommate did not show up at all. His name was on the door, but the guy never came, never responded to any of my emails, and none of the RAs or anyone involved with housing knew where this guy was. He was, essentially, a ghost.

I enjoyed having the room to myself; my new friends and I would use the other bed as a couch to watch movies on, but no one can ever really get that lucky. After a weekend visiting home, I returned to find my room completely redecorated, as a new person seemed to have been assigned as my roommate.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she decorates their bedroom. I was able to tell the type of person my new roommate (we will call him Jason for the sake of this story) would be immediately after taking a sweeping glance around the room. From the American Flag Bald Eagle bedspread, to the poster critiquing the qualities of a dutiful woman, but none could compare to what was now adorning my floor. The crown jewel, taxidermy bear rug in the middle of the floor. Upon meeting him he told me that he killed the bear himself with one of the many bowie knives in his collection. That he brought to school. The bear’s skull was festooned on his desk. I had a feeling that this would be an interesting relationship.

My side of the room was simple: I had a Doctor Who poster, an Xbox and TV and my desk was decorated with various comic books and manga. I am a nerd, if you had not guessed already. On one side, you had the comic book nerd. On the other side, you had a wannabe Chuck Norris.

Unsurprisingly, the jerk stole things from me on a constant basis. My shower sandals suddenly disappeared, as well as half of my ramen, some of my extra blankets, and the cable cord to my television. I have no idea why he would steal these things, but he did. Did I mention that there was a guy living on my floor?

I forget his name, so I’ll just call him Kyle. Kyle was Jason’s friend from High School, and lived on our floor rent-free. I never reported this to the RA, for fear of Jason gutting me with one of his bowie knives. I could just see my skull sitting next to the bear’s.

I was able to tolerate the misogyny, kleptomaniac mannerisms, and the guy living on the floor for about a month. However, things started to go over the deep end one Friday night during the first week of October. I was lying in bed, relishing in the fact that Jason was out getting drunk and enjoying his night. That was fine with me, as long as it didn’t affect my life. At some point, around 3 o’clock in the morning, I woke up to find a girl spooning me. Her voice, which stank of alcohol and possibly microwaved burritos whispered, “I wanna put my finger in his butthole!”

I opened my eyes, wishing that it were all just a horrifying nightmare. It wasn’t. I was in shock, afraid of a certain person’s fingers boldly going where no man (or drunk girl) had gone before- ten points if you got the Star Trek reference. “Who are you?” was all I could whisper.

Sometime later, just when I thought things were finally better, while sitting to watch Family Guy, out of nowhere Jason blurted, “I just don’t like black people.” Unable to respond, I simply changed the subject. Finally, the last straw was when Jason and Kyle brought yet another drunk girl back to the room. Only this one vomited all over our futon. I never got to know her name. Neither, apparently, did they.

I was fed up. By the next weekend, my friend, Peter, from down the hall helped me move my stuff while Jason was out. I didn’t even attempt at finding my stolen items; the bowie knives were enough incentive to keep quiet about those. For the next few weeks, I tiptoed around him until he had finally dropped out of school and dropped off of the radar. I found out later in the year that he had moved into the dorms later than everyone else because his parents had kicked him out of his house. I guess you meet all types of people in college.

Dorm Stories

I have decided to start a new subsection of my blog called “Dorm Stories.” Recently I had a very hilarious conversation with one of my best friends and former roommates, Jo,*  as we wiped the tears from our faces I realized that this was comedy gold. During the four years I attended University in Los Angeles, I lived with everyone, so it seems. Due to circumstances such as an RA job, study abroad programs, large apartments or suites, I felt like I had a revolving door of crazy people. Only one roommate was constant, (I will call her Constance in all further posts because I know she will hate it and the pun is just so obvious) and she and I are still friends to this day – which is quite shocking.  I have yet to determine whether all the lunatics that I lived with, excluding a few, were actually nutjobs, or if it was me, and maybe you can help me determine the answer. Since there were so many roommates, I expect this to be a recurring post – like the Brooklyn posts and the By-Myself-Book Club. And please, let me know your thoughts and your crazy roommate stories!

My first roommate in college was a girl named Jennifer*. Jennifer seemed normal at first, just very, very quiet. On my first day of school I happily moved into my tiny jail cell like dorm room in sunny California bursting with excitement. I lived in an all girls dorm, and I saw from the open doors in my hallway the roommates and their parents getting to know each other, laughing – it looked like a back to school commercial.

My roommate had already been there, as the entire side of her room was completely finished. She had her bedding done, her bath stuff already piled nicely next to the sink behind the door, she seemed to have moved in ages ago. She however, was no where to be found.

I should probably mention now that I was attending a small private school in southern California – approximately 1,500 miles from home, where I knew only 1 other person. I was kind of hoping that I would have that awesome roommate experience from the movies where you meet once and become best friends for life. Or at least someone to be there so I could possible have a person to eat dinner with.

No such luck.

After unpacking my cutesy dorm decorations with help from my mom and dad, I had some dinner and a tearful goodbye, and waited in my dorm room for the roommate to show up while watching some tv. Eventually I fell asleep, and my roommate never showed up. She had been there at some point, as her Harry Potter posters and 100’s of tiny anime figurines told me, but she was no where to be found.

By Sunday I had assumed that something horrible had happened. She wasn’t there. She did show up on Monday to tell me that her parents lived three blocks away, and she really didn’t want to live on campus so she would be spending a lot of time at home. AKA – make some friends because I won’t be one.

During the week Jennifer would go to bed around 10pm and according to a post-it note on our bathroom mirror, could not handle any light in the room while she slept.

Normally this would be something that we could work around. Except, I was in film school, which meant that two nights a week I was in class from 7-10pm. As in, I wouldn’t even get home until after 10 on school nights – let alone Fridays and Saturdays, when I was trying to form a social life. I spent several evenings trying to change quietly in the dark and doing homework in the hallways or common areas. It was not awesome.

One time I brought home a friend, and after introducing her, rather than speaking she just stared at them, not moving or speaking, the entire time. It may have been the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Now, the disclaimer here is that though Jennifer was strange and creepy, she wasn’t a bad person. We had our moments. I had dinner at her parents house, but overall, a less than exciting freshmen experience.

Stay tuned for posts about roommates talking in their sleep, the flower fight of 2007, the manic depressive, the priest fight, awful shower singing, dance parties, impromptu raves, stress cleaning, a cat named Fifi and the unicyclist below our windows.

What about you? Did you end up happily ever after with your freshmen year roommate? What was the freshman roommate experience like for you?

*All names have been changed or altered to protect identities and prevent lawsuits.