I always knew I’d commit myself to many things at college. Committing murder, however, was decidedly not on my list. When I finally decided to go to Washington University, I nervously anticipated my housing information. Would I be placed in one of the (relatively) fabulous new dorms on my tour? Would I be forced into a dungeon-like old dorm and then have to feign some sort of illness that would get me back into said new dorm? And what of my roommate-to-be? What would he be like? Would he be able to handle me? Would I be able to handle him?
The questions abounded until the day I received my information and found that my roommate, a boy with an ordinary enough name, was from Oklahoma. A few thoughts immediately popped into my head: pitchfork, tractor, hay bale. But I was resolute to have that typical college experience, and besides, I was in Lien, the newest dorm at the time, so life couldn’t be that bad.
To allay my fears, this roommate and I arranged to speak online. I was intent on portraying myself as non-offensively as possible, so my answers were middle of the road, not too extreme (I drank on the weekends at parties, and wasn’t into drugs) and quirky enough to display my personality.
Somehow, though, he got out of the conversation that I was uptight, sheltered and, as it later turned out to be quite important, Jewish. I found all of this out when I showed up to my suite on move-in day and our two suitemates and he first asked me where my wheelchair was (we randomly had the handicapped bathroom), and then asked what it felt like to be the only Jew among three Christians. To be honest, I hadn’t yet sized them up for whether I wanted to use their cross-loving bodies for my monthly ritual slaughter with my other Jewish cohorts, so I gave a non-committal smile.
At any rate, things worked out for a while. I put up with his posters of tractors (I was right about one thing!) and Jessica Simpson, and he put up with my incessant playing of whatever Madonna song I was obsessed with that week. There was even socialization for a time, until the Great Plant Killing Incident of 2003 the night before spring break.
That is, there was always a contention about the cable bill, which I paid, but we split. Before leaving for a shopping excursion in NYC, I asked that he give me that semester’s check for more spending money, but he insisted on making it out to my mother, making the check un-cashable. Bitch.
So, I did the only thing any reasonable person would do: I poured 409 cleaning agent into his plant (which he was obsessed with, by the way) while he was sleeping (which I continued to do after returning from spring break) and then watched as the pathetic little thing withered to a crisp. The thought still warms me to this day.
In short, I think my freshman year taught me a lot of things: anger management, conflict resolution, that I could peacefully coexist with another human being in the same space for long periods of time. Mind you, it isn’t something I am looking to do any time soon, but I come prepared with a bottle of Clorox Bleach, just in case.