Today I emerged from the backcountry bruised but in good spirits, prepared to move into my new apartment. It’s a quaint two-bedroom place with big sunlit windows and views of the famous DC cityscape, the Lincoln Memorial being only a five minute jog away. I found one bedroom to be empty and the other one already inhabited, with one bed out of the two dressed in pink and green pillows with a matching plaid cover. So it became a situation where I could take the wild card room and not know at all what kind of person my roommate would be or investigate the other room, and be in for less of a surprise. Also, there was an attached bathroom which counts for a lot. The girl still being MIA at this point, I determined that she likes pink and likes to clean things, as evidenced by the bucket of cleaning agents on her desk. I can only surmise that she enjoys scrap-booking and little dogs with clothes. And then I did a terrible thing, so unthinkable that I should hardly be able to live with myself, and yet I can. I looked in her top desk drawer simply to see how she prioritizes office-y activities. There I found one thing. Embroidered stationary. Aghast, I recoiled in horror and backed away slowly. In a state of panic, I ran out of the room and consulted a friend via textual communications and it went like this:

Me: My God. She has embroidered stationary.

Wade: Get out.

All my things were in the room, there’s the beautiful attached bathroom, and my bed is right next to a window so I would wake up tickled by the sun every morning, so I whimpered a little and determined that one should not be afraid of stationary in light of such good real estate.

To conclude: my anonymous new roommate has a pink and lime green motif that would make every sorority girl squeal. I have muddy Sambas, fresh from a 3-day backpacking trip. Ms. X has 85 different nail polish flavors (?) on her bedside table. I have Palahniuk’s genius overrated-yet-somehow-still-underrated book Fight Club on mine. Ms. X seems to enjoy generic palm tree posters, while I enjoy generic spider photos. On paper it shouldn’t work, but I am hopeful. If she lets me borrow some of her nail polish, we’ll be just fine. I can reciprocate the kindness by teaching her how to start a fire with nothing but a cotton ball.