While I take a shower inside the closet of my childhood room*, my first-year roommate is getting prepared for a date with a man she had met in Germany. She asks me all the questions one girl asks another when she anxiously readies herself like a sacrificial lamb for the alter, eyes fixated on nothing more than her own reflection: "Does this swirly top work better than that less swirly top?", "The jeans, should I stuff them inside my boots like a hooker does, or should I not, and be more modest? I should not, huh, since I really like this kid." These are questions of importance if you are still an active participant of the Mating Seasons.
After my roommate leaves*, I am still showering inside the closet**. I receive a phone call from one of Ryan's sister's friends, who screams into my end of the receiver: "How dare you hurt that man!", and hangs up. I furiously punch numbers into the dial-pad. Oh! But the audacity!
*For the kill. Rawr.
**Not an easy task; I am trying my best not to spoil my childhood clothes with water.
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