How about it, Roomie?
by Chase Guymon
43 hours, 26 minutes, 32. . . . No, 33 seconds . . . 34 . . . 35 . . .
Well, roomie, I really ought to clean up. I already stumbled once over that pile of
towels I left over by the toilet. I'm not the cleanest person, you know. I tend to
forget little things. The water wasn't hot, but it was warm; warm enough to get the
scum off my hands, anyway. Water is calm and gentle, not like my life has been
lately. Not like this past week. No, this week has been hectic and painful and
irritating. So I'm glad I can finally relax.
Where to begin, where to begin . . .?
Mother, I guess. That would be the logical place, and I'm nothing if not logical.
Mother and I had a fight, I was kicked out of my flat, and I lost my job. But, now
I'm here with you, roomie, and life is bliss. I think that sums it up pretty well.
What? You want the longer version. Well, all right.