It was a Wednesday. I had just absolutely bombed a Calc midterm, and I was once more considering dropping out and joining the Navy. My spirits were low.
“No matter,” I thought. “I will simply lay in my bed and watch TikTok until my spirits are lifted or it is time to go to bed. Surely some extended screen time would alleviate my sorrows.” I pushed open the door to my dorm, thrilled to be reunited with my solitary sanctuary. I never expected what I saw that day.
Sitting in my room was this…thing. A person. A stranger. My roommate.
I know not what compelled him to so audaciously occupy my sacred space. I only know that he was there, depriving me of my chance to be gross and sad and depressing and alone. I proceeded cautiously, slowly adapting to the reality of an invader in my home. I thought that if I simply acted as normal—avoiding eye contact save for a brief head nod—I could pass by unharmed. In retrospect, I was humiliatingly naive. He noticed me, and, smelling my fear, mercilessly attacked:
“How was the calc test?”
How dare he. Viciously recalling a detail that I had previously shared with him? At a time when I wanted to rot in bed and watch 30 second clips from How I Met Your Mother? What am I to do now? Engage in amicable conversation? Unthinkable.
“Good,” I said, in an effort to diffuse the hostilities.
This placated him for a moment, giving me hope that I could indeed hate scroll through my For You Page as I had planned. I couldn’t have been more than ten Toks deep when he—this bastard—listened to the video I was watching, recognized the creator, and remarked that he thought the guy was funny? This sick freak. First you invade my living space, then you intrude on my precious (and UNIQUE) algorithm?
I was lucky that day. He had a 2:10 class to get to and I ultimately succeeded in my quest to deteriorate on the internet in solitude. But it still haunts me, and I live in fear every time I enter my dorm. Stay safe out there—you never know who’s lurking in the place that you call home.
