Before going through housing vs. after

To my new roommate:

I really thought I knew what rock bottom felt like after 20 minutes of shaking my ass on a 60 year old for entry to a club violating NYC’s health code and a free shot of fireball, but you opened my eyes. After that night on my 14th birthday, I decided I would never reduce myself to a level so low. I never ended up down there again until I sunk to my knees to suck yours.

This story starts before you. I came to Columbia with more community service hours than a juvenile delinquent and an SAT score higher than my phone number. I thought I deserved to be here, but my top bunk in a double without AC said otherwise. And whenever I found some form of comfort, my satanic roommate would hiss at me, steal my alcohol, and remind me of the piece of shit my housing situation really is.

I would find myself up at night, thinking about how nice it would be to have enough floor space for a rug, or the luxury of adequate drawer space. Often times my RA would catch me gazing across 114th at the spacious singles in the brownstones. How was it fair that they didn’t have to block their window with furniture?

I didn’t start getting desperate until December. It was at that point when I realized that in order for my coat to fit in my closet, I would need to store my two shirts elsewhere. After sharing my struggle with a friend, she agreed to help me if I got pizza with her from Hewitt. I didn’t think much of the exchange at the time, but that decision was like a gateway drug—the beginning of the downward spiral that landed me with your dick in my mouth.

Things only got worse the following semester. Just two days after a snowstorm so shitty it was named after a 2005 boy band, my heater started to blow air colder than my roommate’s heart. I reached out to a friend of a friend, asking if I could crash in her (spacious) room. She granted me a place to stay, but only if I went to Spectrum Cocktail Night with her the following Thursday. The small talk was so irrelevant I felt pain, and realized I may as well have been suffering from frostbite in my bed.

This past month was only tolerable because of my hope for a better situation next year. I figured my patience with my nosy RA and poor selfie lighting would reap me a flirty lottery number, but when I checked the housing portal I found the opposite to be true. I went to the bathroom and looked at reflection. It screamed: desperate, alone, and bloated.

That’s when I found you—logging into the housing portal during a statistics lecture in Hamilton. Your lottery number held my gaze like a white man in a Nicolas Sparks movie. I pretended to like you at first. I’m sure you’re tired of being used, and that most girls just want to get in your pants. But I wanted more. I wanted to get into your suite. I wanted your big double. Your long hallway. Your hard, wet water pressure.

I wasn’t expecting you to want anything back, so when you asked for brain, I really thought you needed a math tutor. You corrected me, and that’s when I had a flashback to this morning, when my heavy, attention-seeking door slammed and locked me out during my shower. I couldn’t go back. I had to do this. I unbuckled your pants and went to work, and as you pulled my hair up, I could feel you pulling me to the top of the housing ranks.

Wish I could live Obamaself via Douilery Olivier and Gage Skidmore