collegecandy.com

Until recently, I’ve always lived with girls. If I decided to play Miley Cyrus on repeat for weeks on end, or buy a vanilla scented candle, it was never a problem. But things change when you live with a member of the opposite sex, which I’ve discovered by acquiring a well-dressed, well-groomed European boy as my roommate this semester. The most important thing to say about my new roommate is that he has really, really good-looking friends. He also, for whatever reason, rarely leaves the house, leaving me with very little time in my natural habitat. He spends his days relaxing, and his nights congregating with his gorgeous posse in shared territory, which turns my apartment into a Eurotrash Esquire magazine headquarters. Two months of living with him has thoroughly modified the looks and content of my apartment, room by room.

The bathroom

What used to be a washroom facility is now a stronghold of objects masterfully hidden from the male gender. Age-old feminine secrets like the fact that girls poop, use tampons, and occasionally have weird facial hair can’t be tastefully tucked aside, and are instead now iron-bolted in an opaque container underneath a floorboard.

The kitchen

Boys eat at least twice as much as girls. It’s infuriating. Having a boy in your kitchen is a constant reminder of all the things girls can’t do in fear of morbid obesity, like eat a pizza as a snack or drink Gatorade instead of water. Suddenly my fridge—which previously contained a carrot, cheap white wine, and a tub of margarine—is filled to the brim with meat products and beer that’s at least 85 cents more expensive than the type I usually buy. Jerk.

Moreover, for reasons I can’t really explain, I am too ashamed to eat my feelings in front of my new roommate. When I have the urge, I now have to go to my neighbour’s house to eat a tub of peanut butter with a spoon.

The bedroom

Our apartment is configured so that people have to walk through my room to get to the kitchen. It’s unfortunate, but it’s cheap. However, this means that my bedroom is public domain to French and German bros who spend more money on their jeans than I do on my rent. The sacrifices I’ve made are probably for my own benefit, but embarrassing nonetheless. Long gone are the days of hanging around in the flowery sweaters my mom made for me when I was a fat fifth grader. I’ve even had to purchase a fair amount of lace underwear just to surface-cover my good old Fruit of the Looms while doing laundry.

As you can see, my current living situation has caused a fair amount of trouble in my day-to-day life. But let’s be honest, when my roommate brings his friends over to pre-drink and walk around shirtless (because that’s what hot people do), and when they insist on kissing both cheeks instead greeting me with a hug or a hand shake (because that’s what hot European people do), I know all the trouble is worth it.