Section 1
As Lucille sleeps, I wonder what would happen if I “accidentally” strangle her in her sleep. I mean, it wouldn’t be without reason—stepping on my bed to close my window on my side of the room? WTF??? Honestly, I’ve been nothing but nice to this girl and here she is, eating my food that I so generously offered, and she dares to watch TV as I diligently do my Freshman Seminar Essay for next Wednesday, to complain about the workload? Give. Me. A. Break. She could just as easily be writing her 4-page history essay due TOMORROW! And yet, such is the struggles of living with a roommate.
I guess this is a rude awakening for me, as I have had the luck of my own bedroom at home for 17 wonderful years. My room, for me, is my retreat, my castle—where I go to read, write, (unfortunately) study, and sleep. After all, I have my TV, laptop with internet, and a bed—why on earth would I want to share all this glory with someone else who likes to control the TV remote and mark up the walls with her various “ways to get organized” quotes.
Argh, now I’m hungry. I want Quiznos- a nice, hot sandwich! But no, Lucille can’t afford Quiznos. She has to pay for 4 years of school with loans. And yet, she has a brandy-new pair of tall sand Uggs in her closet. I just don’t understand it. Her life is a sob story—autistic (and unmedicated, might I add) younger brother, older sister at the local community college partying and drinking to get through the days, and constantly battling parents who can’t afford a decent house for their family. Just rehashing her tale makes me feel guilty for all these horrible thoughts of anger and hatred. You know what? I’ll just tell her I’m going to get dinner before the Café closes and she can come if she wants. No! Wait, then I’ll be subjected to another meal of her whining and griping and copying whatever I eat, staring at me across the table until I want to strangle her again! I would much rather eat alone, much like a hermit, enjoying some quality “me” time with a toasty sub. If my friends were here I could complain to them, but I can’t. I’m all alone. I really hate being here—the stress of classes, social-ness, and roommate issues has me feeling completely drained. TGIF…

Section 2
Ever wonder why “Parent’s Weekend” was changed to “Family Weekend”? My guess is that your entire family can come visit—right? Well, welcome to my life. Not only did my parents and sister come for this ‘Weekend’, but my grandparents and two of my aunts and their families. So, that’s a total of 2 parents, 1 sister, 2 grandparents, 2 aunts, 1 uncle, and 3 off-the-wall cousins. (In other words, 11 extra people trying to fit into a dorm room.) Wow.
So, as always, Lucille's dad is coming up to visit—alone. Not that I mind Mr. Bulkin, but he’s a talker. Put him, my dad, my grandpa, and my uncle in a room and they would die talking. Seriously.
Friday night—scene setting: me and Lucille, in the room. Me, crying silently over my laptop as to why I can’t go home this weekend instead of everyone coming up here, and Lucille, wishing she could stay as far away as possible from the people she calls her family.
Saturday morning—I wake up at 8, my usual time. As always, Lucille's asleep, and probably will stay that way until 10:30, until breakfast opens. I, personally, like to eat breakfast right when I wake up, so I don’t starve and go numb inside. So, I grab my box of cereal and quietly open the fridge door, and settle in my bed with my mini-breakfast. Ahh… food warms me :) Fifteen minutes later, I’m jumping into the shower before Lucille wakes up to follow my lead. The warm water feels sooo good on my neck. Man, I need a vacation. Hey—what the hell? The shower turns ice cold in a matter of seconds. Goddamit. I poke my head out of the shower curtain to see if anyone’s around. Nope—I’m in the clear! I hastily grab my towel and head for the end shower, which I know for a fact to be the only one with hot water. Ahhh.
After I have gotten dressed and dried my hair, I get a call from Mom. (Now it’s 9:45.)
“Hon, I’m just leaving! I’ll be there in two hours, ‘kay?”
“Can’t wait to see you, Mom. Really—I’m so excited!” I reply, no sarcasm at all in my voice.
We hang up, and Lucille's still asleep—amazing. I head into the Common Room and watch some TV until she sleepily pops her head out the door at 10:15.
“Hey! How long have you been up? Want to go get breakfast? Oh shiz-nit, I need to shower. Wait here!” She speed-talks without even stopping to hear my answers, which might have sounded like this:
“I’ve been up since 8, as always. No, I already had breakfast and I’d rather cut off my arm than eat with you ever again! And no, I will not wait here for you to take a shower, because I hate you!”
Sigh. And guess what happens? I’m the good roommate and wait for her to take a shower, get dressed, dry her hair, apply makeup (twice), and lace up her sneakers. And now, it’s 11:40, and my mom’s gonna be here any minute. Thankfully, all Lucille wants is a bagel, so I hurry her along and get a call from Mom while we’re walking back to the dorm.
“I’m here! I just need to—oh, crap—park the car—what the hell—on the wrong side of the road…” Her voice trails off.
“Mom, why don’t you let me park the car? I can do it,” I offer, unsuccessfully.
“No, it’s okay, I’ll just drive around until—aha! Gotcha!” I then assume she found a space she could maneuver the car into. “Be right down!”
“Who was that?” Lucille wonders, “Your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, is she here?! I can’t wait to say hi!” She’s too happy. WHY is she so f***ing happy? Does she not realize I hate her? Nope.

Section 3
So, last night, I’m quietly sneaking into the room at midnight from a “movie night” in my friend Sara’s room. Lucille, of course fast asleep, sits straight up and whisper-screams, “Christina!? Is that you?! Wow, you’re home late. Do you have someone with you?”
“What?” I answer, too tired for words. “No! It’s me, alone, and it’s only 12:05!”
“Oh, okay,” she breathes, and falls back into a strange dead sleep. I think she might have been having a nightmare—I would know because I’m having one right now that I’m here in college with the roommate from hell.
Honestly, I can’t complain that much about Lucille. Whenever I do, my friends always remind me that it could be worse. They’re right. She could be having sex on my bed, or throwing her dirty underwear at me at night. I mean, I guess she just wants a friend.
So I bulked up my courage a few minutes ago and I told her (nicely) that we needed to re-re-re-arrange the furniture. She stared at me. I told her I needed my space, and it was nothing personal (lie). I also said that I need to have my “me time”. She didn’t seem to be fazed by this—I was surprised.
It turns out that it didn’t bother her because she DIDN’T HEAR ME! I come back to the room the next day at 3:30, and she’s talking and talking and watching TV and listening to her iPod on high volume so I can hear “Dani California” playing. I decided that before I would kill her, which didn’t seem too far away, I would just leave. I walked out the door to her calling, “Wait, you just got back! Where are you going?”

To be continued...