Roommates

Home. The place I was raised, but had never really gone back to live. I mean, home is comfortable because I know it. However, there is nothing I really want there. I moved back in with my parents after six years of being away from home. Months before, I had ranted to my friend Alex:
“I don’t want to move back in with my parents! I haven’t lived with my parents for years!”
“I don’t want to move in with my parents either, but I’m going to have to,” he said.
“Holy shit, I fucking hate this! I have two degrees and I don’t have a job! What am I going to do?”
“Move in with your parents.”
“But then I would have to quit smoking.”
“Quit smoking and move in with your parents already!” I had other friends who did not have the option of moving in with their parents, and wish that they did and when I finally moved back in, after skipping out on paying the last month’s rent at this house that I had rented (without any formal written lease), I realized that it wasn’t so bad.
In the past year, I had had 14 roommates. I had brought in the year by living alone in a single dorm room on the north side of my college’s campus. It was a cute little room; however, it was also over 900 dollars a month and had a community bathroom. When you live in a dorm that has a community kitchen and bathroom, it’s like have 30 roommates all at once. Once, I was pulling another all nighter, and I made a trip back to my room only to find that someone had vomited in the hallway. Holy shit people!! There are 15 toilets in the bathroom! How hard is it to make it into at least one of them?
I then went and lived in the west, in a small crappy apartment that none of the windows would open, with eight different roommates. Out of the eight, there was only one that was insane and did not get along with anybody, which is pretty good considering the odds. Our apartment came with steel frame beds in each of the tiny bed rooms and there was also a built in desk and closet. The entire interior was white, except for a rust colored sofa which sat against one of the walls in the living room. As an artist, I hated how sterile the apartment was, so under the built in desk in my room, I did a painting. I spent a great deal of time painting at my desk when I was not at work. It was one of the most productive times of my life.
and I moved into a house off campus with four roommates. Here it was great and we all had a lot of fun, even though our dead beat land lord left his dog with us, while he moved to the east coast to celebrate his mid life crisis. The poor, unloved dog got fleas and they infested the whole house, and so we had to bug bomb the entire house. Two roommates moved out, two new ones moved in, and life went on. Finally, I had run out of luck and money. I finished up my classes early, and moved out of there to Saint Louis.
I lived with a lot of friends and different people, but I never lived with one of my lovers. I feel that is one experience that I am missing out on and perhaps is a good reason to go out into the dating world again, despite the fact that I don’t want to.
After dealing with roommates that were psychotic, neurotic, and just plain disgusting, I moved back in with my parents. And I realized, after all the insanity, I was back with the cool and collected sanity of the people who had raised me. And it was good.