He Freezes Toothpase, Barfs in a Cap, Only Uses AmEx

I had one guy roommate who was always forgetting where he put things. He was always losing his keys and cell phone and wallet, sometimes the same thing over and over and over again in one day.

He would put the milk in the cupboard and the toothpaste in the freezer. I would walk into the kitchen after work and find all of the cupboards open, drawers pulled open and random food sitting on counter that should have gone back into fridge.

When I complained about how weird and annoying it was to live with a ghost from the Sixth Sense, he would say, "Just get over it, it's how I am." Like he has accepted this idiosyncrasy and anyone who had a problem with it was a fucking asshole.

He also only carried an American Express card, which doesn't get accepted at many places. And I swear he did it on purpose because he would turn to me and be like, "Hey you know where I live, right? Can you spot me a twenty? They don't take my card here." It got to be where I would say no and he would turn to whoever else was around and ask for money. I could never understand why he didn't just go to an atm and pull out cash.

The worst night was when he had a bunch of guys over and they were drinking heavily in the backyard. They broke a table and were yelling and hollering and trying to sing punk rock music. I locked my door and put a pillow over my head and when I woke up the next morning he had passed out face first on the tile floor outside, his friend had thrown up in his baseball cap (which was sitting on the ground next to him), and the other guy was laying on top of the broken table cuddling my dog. I felt violated.

Sleepwalking Fat Girl Inspires Sink Peeing in Kitchen Sink

My quintessential New York roommate was (but of course) a Craigslist find. We'll call her Holly Golightly, as she decorated her room almost exclusively in Breakfast at Tiffany's posters and clippings and had what can only be called a fat girl's fascination with all things Audrey. Holly seemed innocuous enough upon our initial encounter. A student at the New School and a waitress, I figured she would pay rent on time and stay out of the way.

She unfortunately did not mention her predilection to binge eating and drinking in the roommate interview. I could NOT keep booze or any non plant based food in the house. She even drank the year old off brand spiced rum, a remnant from a long ago party within a week of moving in. She'd eat everything in the refrigerator and the cupboards (including a bottle of hot sauce in one night) except fruits and veggies.

Then the sleepwalking began. I would say on five out of seven mornings I would find Holly asleep on the toilet. The other two days I would find the toilet seat broken (she never fixed it once) and sometimes her asleep on the couch buck ass naked. I never confronted her about this, instead planning on showering at night and shamefully peeing in the kitchen sink if I couldn't hold it until I got to work. My boyfriend at the time informed me that she would walk into my room asleep, spin around a few times, and turn the lights on and off. I have no first hand knowledge of this one.

Probably the quintessential Holly story combines her three favorite things. Binge drinking, stuffing her face, and sleepwalking (ok, in this case probably closer to "booze coma"). I heard giggles and crashes at the door late one Friday night. I open the door and find Holly laughing in a drunken stupor on the floor outside the apartment (a 5th floor walk up in a pretty unsavory part of Williamsburg). Strewn all over were the contents of her purse and broken bottles of Guinness. She was doing her darnedest to cram an entire cheese sandwich down her throat in one bite and, yes, had pissed her pants. While it was pretty tempting to just leave her to her own devices and her sandwich, I brought her inside and put her to bed. We never spoke of this, or any other odd roommate interaction.

Shortly after this incident I moved out. I had gotten mugged right outside my building, crack dealers did their thing in the stairwell, and a series of robberies with guns had just occurred within a 5 block radius of my house. Holly decided to take over the lease with (another) ditsy blond waitress. I wonder how long they lasted.

Living with a Walrus in a Haunted Artsy House

Well there have been some doozies in my past, but the cake-taker would have to be the gent we politely referred to as The Walrus. This was back in '99, in T.O when I briefly shared my life with a house full of musicians of varying genres and degrees of success – including my boyfriend at the time: a snake-hipped Jagger wannabe.

The house itself was the one that every street has – you know, the one that most kids think is haunted. Overgrown weeds filled the yard, the house was unlockable (thankfully we had all pawned anything of value to buy weed so we never worried too much about break-ins) and barely standing. Inside it was mouldy, dusty, and full of cats, raccoons and/or squirrels – with the occasional skunk thrown in for good measure. But hey, I was young, dumb and in love and to me it was somehow glamorous – in a Sid and Nancy kind of way…

The Walrus was fat, mustachioed, and…well, he looked like a walrus. His sole claim to fame was the fact that he worked as a film security guard. In fact he actually got me and our crazy landlord and housemate Dorian Gray - now he's a whole other story - jobs when we were both unemployed (which was often). Which is how he came to live with us, Dorian felt somehow obliged to him – despite the fact that our jobs were actually pretty crap. Believe me when I tell you that standing for 18 hours in the frigid Canadian wind guarding Beau Bridges' trailer is not all it's cracked up to be.

Anywho, the Walrus had the room next to ours, and apart from obviously not believing in deodorant, or soap for that matter (I never saw him shower) he would go suspiciously silent whenever we dared to try and have sex (eeew!), and once I even busted him trying to peek at me through the keyhole of the bathroom door as I peed.

But worst of all The Walrus was late paying rent. And for about a week after it was due we could hear Dorian in his weed-baked wheeze mildly reproaching The Walrus as he tried to sneak into or out of the house, "The rent…man….was due, like, a week ago…so…you know…are you gonna pay it or what?"

Then he disappeared.

We waited three days, three long days of speculation and hearsay, before the assembled members of our household took it upon themselves to break down his door. Or, more accurately, remove it from its hinges. This is what we found:

- hundreds of matchbooks from strip joints littered the floor and his bed (also on the floor)
- porno mags with the pages literally glued together (double ewww!)
- a hand grenade(!)
- A box that used to contain a gun(!!)
- Bullets(!!!)
- A giant map of the city with 'I shall return' written on it in something red and sticky(!!!!!!!!!!)

At this point we all quietly freaked out, returned the door to its hinges and went back to our respective rooms in silence. There we sat quietly working out how we would escape should he make good on his promise and come crashing through the front door guns a'blazing (ok, so he still had a key so he wouldn't technically have been crashing, but you get the idea). Dorian changed the locks the next day.

Tequila over Thompson

This entry comes from someone bold enough to attach a byline to it. Daring! Here's Jessie Rosen's roommate tale. -Ed

I knew she was crazy when I opened up the fridge (a crucial step in the complete apartment assessment) and found nothing but hummus and tequila. Not to suggest these aren’t staples -- or that my fridge currently has more than two items (one edible, one drinkable). It was just that oh-so-curious combination of tree-hugger and man-slayer that seemed troublesome. Was she calmly dipping carrots while watching BBC on the eight inch tele or pounding Cuervo’s on the way to meet Jose’s. I couldn’t be sure.

Some background: Jose Sabra and I lived in a rent-controlled apartment on a quiet-ish street in the heart of Greenwich Village. It’s a two-bedroom, fourth-floor walk-up in an old tenement building below a very old chess shop. The apartment consists of a small all-purpose room (approx. 200 sq. feet), a tiny bathroom (approx. shower stall-sized), and two bedrooms (I’m afraid to measure – but they fit beds, small dressers and armoires...because they don’t have closets). By all-purpose room I mean kitchen, living room, dining room, library, solarium, office, and home gym. It’s a Swiss Army room.

I’d like to say the oh-so-clichéd “At first, things were all fine and well,” but they never actually were. She ate half that tub of hummus every evening for dinner and washed it down with a ½ a cup of Cuervo. She never ever had sheets on her bed choosing, instead, to sleep under a pile of pillows. She didn’t own one fork, knife, spoon or spork so she scooped the hummus out with un-broken chopsticks. She did yoga every morning in the 4x4ft. space that could be considered the foyer but was really also most of the living room. It was harmless, but it was weird. Not weird enough for me to remotely consider leaving. Not that location – at that price.

It came to a head one weekend when my parents were in town for a visit. J.S. had to work that weekend (she was, shockingly, in finance), so she was up when Mom and Dad came by to pick me up for brunch. It was their first time meeting her – well – seeing her. I don’t they spoke. All I can remember is her exiting her room, retrieving her coffee canteen, and pouring in the remains of the bottle of tequila in front of my very suburban mother.

My parents were aghast. “You have to move! You are in danger! This person is a lunatic!!” They were right, but I fought back with one, simple argument. “Mom, Dad, you find me a bedroom in the village for under $1,000 and I will gladly move! Until then, I’m staying here, and I’m just fine. She has yet to haze me and when I want hummus, it is always readily available!!”

My crunchy alcoholic moved out after a year and the apartment was mine. Was I ever really in danger? Who knows. Was she an annoying burden on my life? Who cares. I was too drunk on the below 14th Street Coolaid washed down with a fresh-cooked Falafel to care. It’s Chess with homeless dudes, tanning on the West Side Highway, coffee shops with a wait-list, and the $10 Vintage-shoes rack until someone pries me from this heaven-sent apartment -- or I require a full-sized bed.

Illustration cred

Thirsty. Eeew.

This first ever roommate (I'll always be a little sore) responded to conflict by actually shoving my face in her exposed cleavage and rubbing it back and forth. Same roommate ended my nighttime-stretching habit by moaning about how sexy it was many nights in a row. She also told all of my female friends that I had told her I was trying to "turn them" so they would sleep with me, AND told the girl down the hall she wanted to "drink her bathwater". Eventually stayed up for five nights straight, culminating in a mental break-down in English class that forced her to drop out.

Roommates Attack Roomie with Hammer, One Still at Large

From the San Diego Union-Tribune:

Roommate beaten with hammer

Two Oak Park men attacked their roommate with a hammer Friday night, causing serious injuries, when he refused to hand over the money he'd earned at work, San Diego police said.

The victim, 44, had been paid in cash after his day's work. When he got to the 54th Street home he shared with the other two men, they allegedly confronted him and demanded his money, police Sgt. Rich Nemetz said.

When the victim refused, his roommates beat him on the head with a hammer, fracturing bones along one side of his face, Nemetz said. Police and paramedics were called about 10 p.m. One roommate was arrested at the home and the other is being sought

Image from Tshirtbordello

Lazy Webcammer is Something In the Way

Freshman year of college: bipolar, unmedicated roommate who listened exclusively to Nirvana (fall semester) and Sublime (spring semester). She did not go to school or work for five months straight. Became friends with the boyfriend from home with whom I was on-the-outs and used her webcam to let him watch me and new boyfriend hang out on the other side of the room.

"Grown-ass woman" meets sketchy Fran Drescher Spawn

Sophomore year of undergrad I had an unfortunate looking J.A.P. roommate from Staten Island (let’s call her Chana). She swore that at home she used to run with drug dealers and give out blow jobs at the neighborhood park, but when her mother came to visit it turned out that Chana was the spawn of a rich Fran Drescher type with fake nails and a screeching voice. That still didn’t keep me from hovering over the toilet seat for a year when I found out she had HPV.

Chana used to masturbate while I was in our room. Say I’d head up to sleep around midnight. She’d come in about 10 minutes later, not even giving me at least a half an hour to pass out, and would proceed to diddle herself while breathing really loudly. The worst part was, it would take her almost 45 minutes to get off. 45 minutes! If I had given a shit I might have given her a birds-and-the-bees tutorial on how to find one’s love button and utilize it, but luckily for me her diddle habit ended when I drunkenly told one of her Jewish sorority sisters about it during a party. Good move on my part.

We shared our two bedroom apartment with another girl, let’s call her Jamie, who had her own room. Jamie and Chana were best friends. Then Jamie hooked up with a dreadlocked hippie type with bad skin and all hell broke loose. It started innocently enough – Jamie made a 4/20 feast completely out of weed and didn’t clean up our kitchen. Chana told her to clean up after herself. They proceeded to bitchslap the hell out of each other in our hallway, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to get in the middle and halt this awesome spectacle. Both girls then bolted from the apartment.

The next morning I came back from class to find that our cable box was gone, our internet and phone were shut off (the bills were in Jamie’s name because she had lived there the year before us), and Jamie was in the process of removing everything else of hers in our apartment – bitch even took the microwave! She filed a restraining order against Chana and had her hippie boyfriend deliver it. She had campus police sit in the living room while she tried to dismantle the IKEA couch because she was sure Chana would somehow desecrate it or set it on fire. She refused to give us her portion of the rent so that we could pay the landlady on one single check – something that was required.

What Jamie forgot to do was take the copies of the cable and internet bills with her. Chana called up the cable company and ordered a whole new box, a premium package and at least a dozen pay-per-view movies on Jamie’s account. She went to go egg Jamie’s car, couldn’t find it, and egged Jamie’s Schwinn bike instead. She took some note Jamie had left us saying to not touch her shit and ripped it up, spreading it all over Jamie’s room.

Finally Chana graduated and moved the hell back to Staten Island, missing her court date in connection with the restraining order and it was put on her record. I got a call from Jamie over the summer asking me for some kind of legal statement because she was taking Chana to small claims court over the cable bill – I told her I didn’t know anything about it and wouldn’t send anything that wasn’t notarized, and didn’t hear back from her about it.

Now, throughout this whole saga, I had remained friendly with Jamie, partly because I didn’t want to get in the middle of it and also because Jamie was staying in the same apartment next year and was kindly letting me leave my shit there while I went home for the summer.

Bad choice on my part. I get a call from our slumlord landlady asking me when I was coming back to pick up my stuff since Jamie was moving out and didn’t think it pertinent to tell me. I bought a $300 plane ticket back and had to move my stuff on top of my friend’s Jetta going 5 miles an hour through the neighborhood. Jamie, of course, decides to move her stuff out the same time as I do, and accuses me of stealing some internet router of hers (regardless of the fact that I was living by myself the next year and had no need for a router). We got in a shouting match on the street, I told her if she ever contacted me again I was going to call the cops, and that was that.

Or so I thought. As soon as I get home to live out the rest of my summer in peace, I got a voicemail on my phone from some crone who turned out to be Jamie’s mother, asking if my mom will call her back. Now, I pride myself on being a grown-ass woman, so to have someone ask me if my mommy will call her mommy is the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. My mom, being a probation officer, calls her back and leaves a message referring her to our lawyer (we don’t have one, but whatever).

Still thinking this is all done, I wait in vain for my security deposit refund check from our slumlord landlady. She refuses to split it up and give us three separate checks without signed and notarized authorizations from all three of us, regardless of the fact that Chana was now living in New York. She also told me that Jamie for some reason thought she was owed the full and complete amount of our refund due to the cable fiasco, but I shot that down right quick. It took me 4 months to get the notarized pieces of paper from these other two bitches and get my check (and the slumlord took off $800 based on hand-written cleaning receipts, thanks asshole).

For the next semester Jamie scurried away whenever she saw me on campus. And I’ve lived happily by myself in a studio ever since. Live and learn – female roommates are evil.

Keep it Down to a Low Roar

First and foremost she was one of these world savers, who wouldn't eat meat and was so concerned about the suffering in the world. Didn't stop her from making her roommates suffer.

Particulars? OK. Well, she insisted on having the world's loudest sex on a regular basis. Sex that overpowered all earplugs. Sex you could hear out on the street. Sex that made you uncomfortable. You get the picture. Never knew what I was coming home to.

After her, I've never had another roommate and have never been happier with my living situation.

Roommate Gets Life in Prison for Icepick Stabbing

Who falls into an ice pick???

Balding Man Leaves Porn in VCR

Seth insisted on telling cab drivers the wrong directions to neighborhoods that didn’t exist… and he didn’t even know he was doing it. He insisted that "D.U.I" meant "Driving with intent."

One morning I woke up and put on the tv for the news as my coffee was brewing… but something else came on… there was a huge penis on my tv! He had left his porn in the vcr. Well… good morning to me! He then proceed to leave his porn all over the house, which was funny at first… then annoying. He also used Rogaine. He was, like, 21. And not bald. I guess he was worried…

Roommate Leaves Diarrhea Monster, Note

My roommate has some digestive issues. She tends to clog the toilet. One Saturday night, my roommate leaves to go out on a date, presumably, and about a half an hour later, I go to use the bathroom. I walk in there and there's a sticky note sitting on top of the toilet that read:

I clogged the toilet. I couldn't find the plunger. Sorry! :(

(complete with the sad face smiley)

Scared of what was inside, I slowly lifted up the lid to find an almost overflowing mass of water and explosive diarrhea. I gag about five times and then go downstairs to the super's closet, where I find the plunger, sitting where it ALWAYS sits. I then proceed to spend the next ten minutes unclogging the toilet while getting the floor, sink, and myself wet with the spray of the hell that was left in there by her.

This tale is just another item to the long list of reasons why my roommate is the laziest piece of Jersey trash I've ever met. Other items on the list include: never cleaning anything in a span of a year and a half, not using soap while washing dishes, and leaving the new toilet paper roll sitting on top of the old one instead of just changing it.

Knit poo pic from UltraKawaii

Roommate Shoots Other Roommate

From the Seattle Times:

Mental exam ordered for woman in Spokane shooting death

A woman charged with shooting her roommate to death with a shotgun in Spokane has been ordered to undergo a mental evaluation.

Meanwhile, proceedings in the first-degree murder case against 26-year-old Natalie Rose Orth have been stayed.

:-(

Stoner Cuisine: Tuna Fish with Italian Dressing?

I lived with some roomates in queens… the first a girl named Kate. Kate would come home and put on a housecoat like an old lady would wear. She would then take out her bong and pour herself a goblet of wine… and when I say goblet, I mean a HUGE goblet. She would then empty a can of tuna fish in a bowl and pour italian dressing on it and microwave it for a good long while… enough for it to really stink up the place. Nothing like pot and tuna to welcome you home!

One day, she got really mad at me… she told me how she met a boy named Nate that she really liked… and I could not help myself… I say "Wow, Kate! You met a guy named Nate? Are you gonna date? Maybe he is your soul mate! Isn't that great? I think it's fate! Make sure you aren't late…" This went on and on for days until she just got pissed at me. Nate came over one day and I could barely keep it together. He said I looked familiar… it turned out he knew my sister and we both wrote for her zine at the time and we just started blabbing… which of course made Kate even more pissed.

Image from icanhazcheezburger!

Dirty Hippie Locks on Desk, Hygiene in the Dust

I had a roommate my freshman year of college who was the child of pot smoking hippies(which is not unlikely considering he was from Oregon) [Not all of us are that stinky! Jk! -Ed], who managed to only shower three times in the year that I shared a dorm with him. It all started when I smelt something putrid coming from his vicinity of the room, I thought that it was maybe some shoes or food or something. Not that big of a deal, so I let it go.

As time passed, I noticed that the smell was not dissipating at all, so I again went investigating. I found what I had thought to be the source of the smell, his sheets, so I took it upon myself to strip the bed, and wash all of his sheets, yes I washed his sheets because I thought that would help the smell go away.

So after the sheets are done, I make his bed, and he comes back from classes, and he doesn't even notice! Granted I didn't do it for him to notice, I did it for the sake of my olfactory system. So I casually mentioned it, something along the lines of me saying "Do you notice anything different about your bed? No? Well I washed your sheets, they were starting to smell."

His response? "Oh well I have other sheets that I could have put on." Then what does he do? He stips his fresh clean sheets of his bed and changes them with some that were sitting in his closet. Whatever.

Moving on, he also had long long long hair that he would tie back into a pony tail. He would brush his hair occasionally, and with each brushing of his hair he would manage to not throw his hair away, but leave it sitting on his desk. Gross! SO I would come back from class and there would be piles of hair sitting on my desk. It was quite possibly one of the most disgusting things I have seen in a long long time.

And every time I would mention it to him to throw his hair away, he would come back at me with "This is my room too." To which I would want to throttle him and scream in his face "Yeah it may be your room you fucking disgusting ass hippy, but that doesn't mean that you can't respect the space."

He would also eat food in the room, then throw it away and leave it sitting in the garbage can all day and sometimes all night.

It was after that horrible experience that I vowed to always know my roommates and never ever live with a stranger again. I spent my sophomore year in college living by myself so that I could decompress from that horrible experience. Gross!

Roommate Super Jeals That Boyfriends Exist

My roommate, let's call her Jeannie, had a low drinking tolerance.

One night my boyfriend and I were watching a DVD in the common space of the apartment when Jeannie came home drunk. Apparently her friends had to call her a cab when she was 5 blocks away from our apartment because she was too drunk to walk and too heavy to be carried. Jeannie was a needy and lonely person masquerading as a free spirited hipster, and she was jealous of my happy relationship.

In her drunken stupor, this translated into her coming into the living room and pulling the power plug on the DVD player, then returning to her room. The first time we were mildly amused. The second time she did it we started exchanging looks but let it go because she was clearly shitfaced.

Then the third time she came out and did it we said something to her, and the next thing we knew she was on her stomach on the floor, kicking and screaming and sobbing. She was a 23 year old woman having a full blown temper tantrum because I had a boyfriend to watch movies with and she didn't. She sheepishly apologized the next day, but I have never shaken the sensation of seeing someone act quite that pathetic.

Amusingly, she is now pursuing a Masters in early childhood studies.

The Agony of Dishes

She had this cleaning OCD that only escalated the longer I lived with her. In the third year, she was not-so-secretly re-cleaning dishes that I had already cleaned and put on the drying rack. She would stay up until 3:00am cleaning, and if you left a dish in the sink for longer than half a day, it was magically washed up for you. This might seem like a great service to have, but not when she's giving these signals that you're dirty and inadequate because you're not obsessed about cleanliness like she was.

...She would invite all of our friends over for wine and cheese parties (lame), and when I got home from work I would see a million people parked outside and not have any idea of what was going on. I would wonder why I wasn't invited to a party at my own house, and my friends would wonder why I shut myself in my room...

...and I still hate her guts. But I think that part's pretty obvious.

Image from Natalie Dee!

A Pseudo Poem for a Very Special Chicken Chef

He would come home from work as a dishwasher and hang all the musty/moldy/disgusting clothes in front of the heaters so the funk would smell up the entire apartment, then would throw his musty clothes into my hamper.

He had a treadmill in the apartment/dorm and would run early in the morning when I was sleeping—mind you we were sharing a studio. One time he had ran about half an hour and told me “damn, I lost 90 pounds.”

He asked me how to “defreeze” chicken, called the refrigerator a “defreezer,” and said he only knew how to cook corn??????????????

I would often hear him having conversations out loud to absolutely nobody, even when he was laying in bed. Was he thinking out loud, tripping, practicing a phone conversation? I’ll never know.

Once there was a blackout, and I came into the room to pitch blackness, but he was listening to his headphones at the table and talking to someone (meaning no one). I gave him a flashlight and left again.

He was leaving the school after 2 semesters, and I remember him on the phone talking to someone who I assume was an admissions rep. from a technical school. It went sort of like “Yeah...I wanna work with like a group of law...like a law group. You know? Like the law, like a group of law.”

The last I heard, which was years ago, was that he was delivering medicine to disabled seniors in Detroit.

A Classic: Inconsiderate Roommate Sex

My roommate - let's call her "Anne" - was a stereotypical Connecticut brat.

She had a constant cash flow from her dad that she spent on overpriced clothes, cocaine and crappy DVDs She ate my food without permission and stained the bathroom tile with her plethora of beauty and hair products. Her friends that were always slinking around were annoying hipster douchebags, too.

But Anne's worst crime was having loud sex in our living room during broad daylight. Because of how our apartment was structured, I couldn't walk to my bedroom without having to go through the large living room. No courtesy towel on the door. No text message. No warning until you walked in at 2 pm between classes to see her and some random dude (revolving door of man friends) going at it full-throttle on the common room couch before I'd even eaten lunch.

Needless to say, my appetite will never be the same.

Baseballs: A Roommate Love Letter

What I know about baseball culture I mostly gleaned through Kevin Costner movies. And there's something about this "road roomy" thing that I just don't understand.

Check out this blog post by Garrett Broshuis from the SF Giants. The homo-erotic undertones are comically inescapable. He begins:

I'm tragically dealing with a breakup right now. My roommate is gone, leaving me for another player. I'm looking all around, and he is nowhere to be found.

Okay, so it's a playful hook to get you into the post. Whatevs. But then he goes on to say that his roommate "was promoted without my permission" to another team. The metaphor takes a turn for the flirty.

...I know a lot of his idiosyncrasies just as I know my wife's quirks. I know, for instance, that he likes to eat healthy but yet can't pass up a nightly cookie or doughnut, and I know that he has a penchant for iced lattes....

And oh, the anxiety:

After Ryan was called up to Class AAA, I had some anxious moments pondering the prospects of my next roomy. Would he be a night owl, howling his nights away, noisily arriving back from the bars and peeing on my bed? Would he be bringing girls back to the room at random intervals? Would he be the smelly guy? Would he snore? And can he karaoke? All of these things were running through my head as I mulled the possibilities.

And this last paragraph feels like it's pulled straight from an early Bushnell Sex and the City column:

I'm not sure this relationship will last as long as my previous roomy relationship, but I'm not really looking for anything permanent. In fact, I'm going to continue to search for my old roomy. As desperate as it seems, I hope that I find him soon. My new roomy is great, but I think I would be happier if I were able to rekindle my old roomy relationship. Hopefully I'll find him soon, waiting for me in Triple-A Fresno.

I don't think we're talking about roommates anymore. But Godspeed, Broshuis. I, too, believe that he's out there, somewhere.

Image: Long Strange Trip on Flickr