You seem really sweet and laid back. You waited and held your spare room for me for weeks while I investigated other potential shares with a number of unsuitable roommates. And now you genuinely seem happy that I'm moving in next weekend.
So for that, for all your sweetness and calmness and patience, I feel I must let you know what you're getting into by choosing to live with me.
I haven't been a roommate in nine years. I don't think I remember how to be a good one anymore. I don't think I ever knew.
I might buy my own toilet paper. I only like Angel Soft.
I might set the toaster oven on fire when cheese drips off a slice of leftover pizza I'm twice-baking.
I might cry a lot.
I might hide from you in my room.
I might leave dirty dishes in the sink for a long time.
I might drink too much wine and spill all my secrets.
I might blog about you.
I will try to take up as little room as possible in our small apartment we'll share, as my body slowly disappears and my possessions follow suit.
I will definitely walk around scantily clad in a nightie, because that's what I actually sleep in every night. I can't sleep with pants on.
I will pay the rent and the utilities. I will lock the door. I will turn off the stove.
I will leave the lights on because I don't like walking into a dark room.
I might not ask you how your day was.
I might not seem very happy to be there.
I might not stay very long.
O my roommate, I am heartily sorry for what I might do, and what I might fail to do.
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