My random roommate assignment had been going swimmingly until late one fateful October evening in Mercy Hall. If you thought living in Mercy was the scariest thing to come of this incident, you would be deeply mistaken. We were sitting on our beds doing our homework when she let out a routine grunt about her work– typical Millie. A moment later, I heard another grunt from her, except this one was more guttural, almost like a growl. I looked over my shoulder to see a brilliant full moon out the window, and when I looked back at Millie she was thrashing around and barking. Oh no.
My roommate is turning into the alpha male.
She howls. She spins around in her bed a couple times before falling asleep. She watches the Dow Jones. I’m living with an alpha and it sucks. Now, anytime I try to talk to Millie, it’s always “the wolf pack” this and “the wolf pack” that. Her old bohemian-chic dorm decorations were replaced with a Saturdays are for the Boys flag and inspirational alpha quotes. “A lion does not concern himself with the opinion of sheep” is plastered up on the wall across 4 poorly aligned pieces of computer paper in Arial MS Word font.
Millie starts every morning the same: she sits up and stretches her arms up and outwards first, letting out THE yawn and smacking her lips three times afterward. Once shes garnered my attention, she turns that arm stretch into a flex and winks at me, then kisses her right bicep, left bicep, right deltoid, left tricep, and right bicep again; always in that order, every morning, except for Wednesdays (leg day). This routine is much longer on Wednesdays. Next Millie downs a Radical Skadattle Bang Energy and a peanut butter banana protein shake to fuel up for a long day at Grossman and the Patrick Gymnasium.
The first stop on her testosterone-filled day is Campus perk, where Millie gets her black coffee and then stands, completely entranced in the scrolling stocks. She doesn’t look up at the LED scrolling screen because alphas are looked up at, they don’t look up. She’s able to look at it at eye level since she’s like, “six-four, for real but don’t check.” Once she’s done checking on her investments and living in her financial-advisor-father’s shadow, she heads off to class, slapping the top of the door frame upon entry, and it makes me feel insecure in my masculinity.
Categories: creatif, nov 16, zoe wilson