Saturday, January 28, 2012

memries sponsored by Gawker

Gawker recently made a call for comments about roommate horror stories-- saying they'd give the best submission a mystery prize. Mine didn't make it in before the deadline, so I figured I'd post this big fat waste of time here.


She was a ballerina with bulemia. It was college, I was a freshman and we were paired randomly, forced to share a tiny room, toilet and shower. She was a sophomore, and though she was permitted to live off-campus and choose her own roommate, she did neither, which I
should have seen as a red flag.


BB would crunch on snacks and crinkle wrappers late into the night as she stared at her laptop screen, endlessly clicking her mouse to reveal photo after photo of comparatively attractive coed.


We lived in a three bedroom dorm-- a suite. In total, there were six of us sharing said toilet and shower. One day, the quiet, bookish Asian suitemate was in the shower when she discovered a brown splotch on her dove shampoo bottle. Cutting her shower short, she slowly walked out of the bathroom and, with a puzzled look on her face, announced there was poop on her shampoo.


NO WAY, I shouted, and immediately dropped what I was doing to investigate. I  marched into the bathroom and picked up the bottle. The brown substance was not quite liquid or solid. It certainly looked like poo, but one couldn't be sure without administering the smell test. So, with a suitemate huddled over each shoulder, I bravely lifted the bottle to my face and took a whiff. 


There was no mistaking the stench. The bottle had been shat on.


A further investigation led us to BB's hefty stash of laxatives. How one could throw everything up post-meal time and still have something left to shit out afterward seems like some kind of medical miracle, but the more I think about it, the poo's texture suggested it may have been composed primarily of  stomach bile.


A month or so later, I was taking a shower and looked down to find a different, but equally repulsive present laying in the midst of six girls' bath products. 


A bloody tampon, just inches from my pinky toe.


This time one of the suitemates-- a bold, mean theatre type-- got confrontational with BB about the shower floor tampon, and BB got defensive, saying she thought it was the proper way to dispose of tampons.


Her unapologetic attitude seemed, to me, more inexcusable than any other roommate code she'd violated because of her disease.

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