Sometimes people make me wonder. How can you live in this crazy, materialistic, confusing world without going a little insane? Well, I witnessed insanity at its finest a few nights ago, and I'm sad to say, it wasn't as amusing as it may sound.
Let me explain where I live before I get into this. New York City, the Big Apple, Tourist Trap..whatever you want to call it-its the city that moves too fast. There are nannies, barely regarding the children they care for, business people weaving in and out of each other at the speed of the Bionic Woman on prozac...and then there's my crowd: iPod-distracted teenagers. Pulling our lazy asses out of our half-made beds in the morning, we finally cross the threshold into the city's buzz. Why? Just to go to classes that we're probably too tired to tolerate in the first place. But we all secretly love it. I mean, its New York City, how much better can it get right? That is, until we have to return to those very same dorms. It's then that we cross a new threshold: suitemate hell.
There's four of us in my dorm: the singer, the dancer, the sarcastic, and the bitch (my favorite). The singer grants us the gift of her beautiful voice in exactly 30 songs she composed AND sings. If only all the songs didnt sound EXACTLY the same, maybe it would be great fun to deal with, but she's tolerable. The dancer is the girl in my actual room and probably one of the people I feel most comfortable around. I could talk about the amazement of her random nature, but let's skip straight to the good stuff.
Oh, the bitch. The Long Island Bitch. How I love her so. There's the constant music thumping against my wall, interrupting my sleep and keeping me from procrastinated homework on my crowded desk. I admire dearly the graceful way she slips into the bathroom after I unlock it when I'm in my shower just to tell me to "be afraid of her". Above all, I love the way she openly expresses her need to go home every weekend just to smoke pot, to avoid past trouble of smoking in the dorm room. Now, I was pretty much taught that pot isn't the most important part of life. If I'm wrong, please care to correct me. I enjoy much less thrilling things like going to the movies, laughing as my roomate regails me with stories of falling on her ass due to the wet snow, and every female's embracing or hidden passion: shopping.
I'll leave my Citibank tucked into my proud Target-branded wallet for now, and carry on my week with the bitch at my side. Bitch and sarcastic sister, we could fight crime. But, give her an eviction and me a spring break, and no spandex stories will be created.
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