My Roommate

I like my university. I like my friends. I like my courses. I like my family. I like a lot of things.

So if someone wants to call me an angry miser who just wants everything to fail and who looks for the worst in everything, I can say with absolute certainty that they're wrong.

I don't like my roommate. How can I? I've never met the guy. It's been six weeks. You think we'd have some form of communication by now. Or something. No, he just brings his friends over and leaves them in the room for extended periods of time when I'm doing. . . okay, rather unimportant things, but still. When I'm chilling in my bed, I don't want all these anonymous fuckers coming in and yelling about your shitty spineless music and worthless worries.

I won't be surprised when it turns out you're all occupying cubicles somewhere. Except my roommate. He's loathsome enough to be Lumbergh. Y'see, he has about that much fashion sense and people skills. Also, misanthropy.

Misanthropy. That's a good word. More on that later.