My Life in College: The perils of having a roommate, take 2

Moral Mildred/Sun Star Columnist
February 19, 2013

Once upon a time, I wrote a column featuring the perils of roommates. This time, I would like to share with you a specific event that recently occurred in my dorm room.

My roommate, or more accurately suite mate, recently celebrated her 23rd birthday. It fell on a Friday, which we found rather convenient, so we all did the proper over 21 birthday thing: drinking. We started at The Pub, keeping it low-key with beer, and it wasn’t too long into it that I decided to leave. I was feeling sick and wanted to get some sleep. So I said my goodbyes, confirmed that I would keep my phone on in case a designated driver was needed.

The  next thing I remember, the birthday girl is in my room at 4:30 in the morning, screaming about cake–literally screaming–and turning all the lights on. I was disoriented, wondering why I was suddenly being yelled at and blind, and emotionally frozen between confusion and anger. This quickly dissolved into mortification, as I discovered I was naked from the waist up. I grabbed a pillow, as my still-screaming suite mate continued to drop cake all over the floor, and reached for a shirt. As I pulled it over my head, some guy came bursting into my room, carrying a blender and some ice. He briefly paused to take in my near nakedness, then started yelling something about margaritas and disappeared into the other room. I followed in a daze, only to discover the birthday girl sitting on the floor by her desk, mumbling about having porcupines in her hands, and absentmindedly wiping away water that was dripping from the bicycle parked next to my desk.

I inquired to why, and who’s bike had made its way into our dorm room, only to be informed rather loudly, “I have porcupines in my hands!” I was then handed a margarita, given a piece of cake and pushed into a chair and talked at.

This continued for a good hour or so, me being dazed and confused and wondering if I had dropped acid and forgot about it. Eventually, the copious amount of alcohol in everyone’s system took its toll and I was able to get my suite mate into bed, with fresh clothes and a glass of water. I then crawled back to my room, ignoring the mysterious bike, dogging pieces of cake that littered the floor and only giving the melting bag of ice left behind by Margarita Boy a cursory glance. I gave the clock one tired look–eight in the morning–and fell asleep.

I love my roommates to pieces, and while this makes for an interesting story, having it actually happen was more mentally scarring than anything else. So, as I’ve said many times before: drink responsibly guys, and remember that bikes belong outside.

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