This is the true story of my first-ever college dorm roommate during my unsuccessful and short-lived stay at an art school in San Francisco. I documented the account almost immediately after it happened and felt an inexplicable need to update the narration. Warning: Strong language and graphic allegories alluding to poop.

I still remember the day 17-year-old me walked into the dorm room that would be my home for the next six months. I was secretly hoping, as everyone else did, that my first college roommate would be cool. Maybe we’d hit it off from the get-go; maybe it would turn out that we listened to the same music, or were both ecstatic at the thought of skateboarding through the treacherous slopes of downtown San Francisco; or maybe we shared the same ambition of rising through the writhing, hormone-fueled ranks of the freshman student body to become gods among college kids. Where the tales of our deeds — the countless, glorious victories on the tables of beer pong, or the passionate lamentation of the women who would grace our bunk-bedsides each night, or the way we totally didn’t study for the final for that one class we didn’t go to the entire year but still ended up passing anyway — were the stuff of legends.

Maybe — just maybe — he would be cool. ↓ Read the rest of this entry…