The night before I moved to college, I had a dream, and, like Martin Luther King, it didn't end well.
I'm embarrassed to say that in my dream I was blogging. That's so sad.
I was posting a picture of myself with a bloody lip, a black eye, a tooth or two knocked out, a scar on my cheek, and spit on my face. The title was "My Roommate Doesn't Like Fags." End of post.
So you can imagine my angst on the three hour drive down.
Fret not, readers, as dreams do not always come true as the lack of Jake Gyllenhaal between my sheets suggests.
My roommates are lovely. My actual roommate, herein known as Matt, is a beautiful person and I love him. Not in the Nifty Erotic Story archive sort of way, where he gets dumped by his girlfriend, we get drunk, and fool around, and then afterwards he confesses that he's loved me from the first time we met, but in that he's a great person. He's far too photogenic though. I don't know what else to say about him. He's great. I'll try and think of an example for another post.
One of my suitemates (who will be called Andy), I don't know too much about. He lives about twenty minutes away, and so he runs home occasionally for errands and stuff. He goes on bike rides a lot, and our classes are such so that we don't see each other very often, but he seems nice anyway. He has a tattoo on his chest of the evil monkey from Family Guy. He's the one most likely to get drunk or find some pot, but as of this post he hasn't gone overboard to the point where I resent his existence.
The last suitemate, known as Rich, is the most flamboyant closeted gay guy I know. He's a neurotic gay Jew from Manhattan with OCD, and you would think that we would get along well since some of my favorite bloggers are neurotic gay Jews from Manhattan with OCD, but it's not the case. He's so blatantly gay, but trying so hard to be in the closet it's almost amusing. Note the use of the word "almost." Everyone on our floor has a little bet going; we think he'll be out of the closet by Christmas. He's from the Upper East Side, which he will remind you of on a regular basis, and consequently loaded, which is nice.
I actually moved in a few days later than the other guys since I didn't go to Freshman week, and I missed out on some stories. They all went shopping for groceries, and it was Rich's first visit to a grocery store ever. He's always had someone to do his shopping for him. He walked around the store, shouting things like "Holy Shit! How do people eat this many pears?" "No wonder America's so fat--look at how big this jar of mayo is!" and "What the Fuck? Look at how many cans of soup there are! Do all grocery stores have this many cans of soup? This is insane!"
I have a feeling that there will be a lot of stories about Rich, if I can stand to hang around him enough. Fortunately, he's had a cold the past day or two and has been subdued.
The way the rooms are set up is that there are two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchenette/dining room. Somehow, I ended up in the room with the smaller closet, which was irritating but fine---until I visited our neighbors across the hall and found that a straight guy has a walk-in closet. I've been bitching about that all week. He has his own room, and he has a walk-in closet. Not fair.
I really like my dorm. There are only 120-some students, and most seem to have been on their own before, so there aren't a lot of kids getting drunk for the first time staggering through the hallways. We have a rooftop balcony, with a great view of the capital. The dorm is about two blocks from Frat Row, and so far there hasn't been any problems *knock on wood*.
I think that's about it. If you have questions, let me know, but I'm pleased about my dorm, which is much better than Freshman year at this time. I might tell you all that story later, but it's a bit too depressing for this post.