by edenambrovich
My roommate is a sight to behold.
In beauty, yes, but mostly in the way their mind spins. Each day presents a new challenge to be reckoned with and a new study to be held on my part. As an anthropologist, I naturally have the urge to study what is interesting about the human mind and behavior. My roommate is a perfect candidate for such studying given the complexity of the mind at hand, and as someone who sees her day-to-day, I have taken it upon myself to recount and review a day in their life for them.
The day began as any does, with torment and turmoil at the struggles of young, queer romance: questions unanswered and emotions lacking a soothing hand. My distressed roommate rises at dawn and showers her worries down the drain, but they are caught in the nest of hair that makes her gag and thwart her dark-haired roommates. A thorn jabs into her side and bleeds them of sadness and replaces it with a seed of frustration. But the little guy must persevere, and so he does.
I notice as they dress themselves in the queerest clothes she could pull together, hoping to prove something to themselves and relieve the discomfort that rejection shoves onto identity. Shapeless and devoid of femininity or masculinity. Gender confusion leads the seed to sprout in her stomach, and the fangs of the cold air biting their exposed face only fertilizes its soil.
We connect again after class and attempt to avoid the sensitive topics. Instead, we discuss the ways our political classes leave us with the ever-alleviating thought of the world crumbling to shambles. It’s easier to focus on the whole world crumbling than it is your own world. After our breath of cold air and a long walk home, we share a bowl and recluse to our rooms. I know they are thinking about the mountain of dishes that crowd our sink post-dishwasher destruction, and I can feel her sending waves of red towards them. The thorn twists and the sprout grows into their veins.
She throws her laundry in the wash, hoping to cleanse herself of this emotionally tormenting day, and with her presence and the aid of our other two roommates, we convince her to smoke a joint and join us for a viewing of Perks of Being a Wallflower. This pushes the plant of dread to bloom and explodes into a shower of juicy tears that pour from her eyes and drench their sweatshirt, draining them of everything they have left and sending her back into the sanctity of her room.
This was the final straw.
From my room, only a few steps away from hers, I hear thrashing and slapping of wet clothes being strewn about her small room. The thorn has shifted to a dagger and the untethered rage releases in thick vines shooting from their fingertips. A slew of cursing and anger at having paid three dollars for laundry to “not even be DAMP!” shatters the walls of the house. I slowly step into the hall to see what the commotion is about, being careful to sit in the doorway and say nothing, only to observe and note the events at stake. I have never seen such pure rage being released from such a tiny body – it spills over the entire universe. When the rage falls to small grumbles, I watch them reach for a yoga mat and roll it onto the open space on the ground, away from the mess of wet clothes lying abused and piled in the corner of the room.
And with this, her day closes.
Based on what I observed of their day, I give the day a 2/10. Yay for the incredible coping methods of inanimate aggression and meditative yoga, but clearly I did not catch her on a good day. As much as I like to poke at them for their mini fits of rage and force comfort with humor, I love my little guy and I’m happy to be able to document all the little wheels in their head. Tomorrow will be better.