PHD, or Player Hater’s Degree, is where our very own Moxipop writers get to vent their built up steam about something beloved and popular. It’s okay. We can like different things and still get along.
I don’t, and I don’t I ever will for that matter, understand the communication that takes place between roommates. I don’t just mean the roommates you pick up on Craigslist either (though those experiences will be the majority of my references), but the ones you willingly desire to share a home with, be it a friend, a boyfriend/girlfriend/partner, husband/wife, or third cousin twice removed. Yeah, roommates of ALL kinds and proportions, I don’t understand what they’re thinking.
Picture this. You’re waking up after a very rough night because it took two or so extra hours for you to fall asleep because of your roommate blasting a movie in the adjacent room and realize all you need to make the day manageable is a cup of coffee and some toast. You swing your feet over the edge of the bed, very carefully traipse across your room as to not bump into some things you’ve somehow left on the floor (and they’ve been on the floor for weeks – college life y’all), and take a deep breath to start the journey outside of your comfort zone (this is where you can actually get away from the roommate issue, though it’s minimal help considering rooms are not soundproof when you’re an ordinary human being) to the kitchen… where, get this, your stuff is mixed with your roommate’s stuff and you somehow have to trust each other not to mess any of it up. Yeah, right.
Anyway, back to the image I was painting you: 6.5 seconds later, give or take because I don’t know your pad’s square feet (excuse me, I’m not paid enough to acquire the skill-set in being a successful stalker), you’ve trudged up to the coffee maker and find that not only is it not how you left it yesterday, but it’s been used again and soaked ground coffee is all over the place. Um, okay? Oh hey, your water bottle is gone. The paper towels you left sitting on your side of the counter? Yeah, they’re used. Your mug seems to be in use too. Oh, no, wait! You’ve spotted it. It’s in the sink. Used. So that morning isn’t going to go at all like planned, it’s not even going to be in the same neighborhood as “okay” all thanks to Mr. or Ms. Roommate.
Now I’d like to believe I’m a patient girl. Use my stuff once, alright, cool, I’ll get over it. Use my stuff twice, I’m going to issue you a warning. Use my stuff thrice, well, fuck you. Which roommate thinks the house they live in owes them anything? The person you’re living with, unless they’ve initially agreed to it, does not want to share. Not the dispensable things anyway, but utensils and bowls may be fair game. Nowhere in my contract does it state I have to buy toilet paper for the person I met on some roommate-seeking board because I can’t afford an overpriced closet of a studio apartment in Los Angeles that is undoubtedly in the worst neighborhood with unpaid parking. You know, if I wanted to spend extra money, I’d be in said studio right now.
Since when is “hello new roommate, my name is (insert your name here),” interchangeable with “hey, I’m your new bitch, feel free to abuse me and use my things whenever you see fit and leave me high and dry, that’s what’s missing from making this place home sweet home”? Yeah, no. Not cool. You may think this is going overboard, but after my dingy past with roommates, I cannot even imagine wanting to share a place with a spouse, if ever it comes to that. I’ve learned so much after flying the nest, and now I know how my mother felt all those times she picked up after me. It’s like I’m my roommate’s mom any way you look at it. Our shared bathroom? I clean it. The kitchen stovetop with all the pasta and rice remnants? I scrape that shit off myself. And all the shame that’s felt when someone new comes over and steps into either of these places before I’ve unloaded my stress cleaning on them? Yeah, only I feel it. THANKS, ROOMMATE!!
As you can probably imagine, I’ve set my sights on living alone for the time being. For as long as possible actually. Blame the only child in me, but hey, my stuff is my stuff unless you have permission to touch – we’re not in kindergarten, I really don’t have any obligation to share. So if you’re out there, roommates wondering why the person you’re living with may be giving you the cold shoulder or bitching behind your back, think back to the communication. Is everything equal or are you getting the better end of the living situation deal? Or maybe you’re like me, and in that case, best of luck and may the roommate-seeking odds be ever in your favor.
Ani is a twenty-something SoCal native driven by all things pop culture. Armed with a Master’s in communication studies, she spends her days analyzing her surroundings, enjoying live shows and film, traveling the world, eating pho, and being an opinionated individual. She also happens to be the biggest I Love Lucy fan of her generation.