Roomate #4 and I were yelling at the internet. There was an insistent knock at the door. It was three Aussie boys, all in suit-jackets, two with accompanying bow-ties/cummerbunds, and one with a Hawaiian shirt, boxers, and tall socks. “I’m so sorry” boy #1 said about five times, I stood in the doorway and laughed. “We heard tons of girls yelling,” Boy #2 said, “but you two were just skyping each other from across the table.” “Oh no, they’re doing homework!” said Boy #3, followed by: “We’re drunk.” Boy #1 sat down and started to read the blog post I was working on out loud: “There happened to be a cake waiting for us when we arrived…” He trailed off, not being able to pronounce “cherry jam.” “What are you drinking?” asked boy #3. I told him it was hot chocolate; it was just in a jar because we don’t own cups at apartment 49. Naturally I was then challenged to a Goon battle. Naturally I was a victor at said Goon battle. (Isn’t it funny how I capitalize Goon?) The new friends invited us to a party at 114, I was grabbing my Flying Silver Tiger when Boy #1 whispered the secrets of the party at 114 in my ear (“It’s gonna be lame, I wouldn’t turn up if I were you”). I decided to write my blog instead.
Roommate #5 stumbled in singing: “Party rockers in the house tonight, everybody just have a good time!” Then he spilled beer on the carpet. I reprimanded him: “clean the floor, and while you’re at it, eat your fucking raisons, they’re good for you!” “You’re such a terrible roommate!” he cried as he scrubbed the floor with a dishtowel. It was then that I figured out why our dishtowels always smell so bad. Roommate #5 then related tales of hooking up with four girls on the bus over to the city. In the city it was raining and it was a “shit show.” “It’s all about the journey,” I commented. “Good talk” he said, as he ran out the door with a piece of white bread and the half of his beer that remained.