So I don't actually post anymore. This isn't a post.
Want to hear something sad? The other day on facebook my roommate was all: Who wants to watch the new Veronica Mars movie with me??? and I didn't say anything because I thought he would watch it long before I got back from spring breaking. Well I just got back and he is in his room watching Veronica Mars. Alone. I guess he didn't get any takers. And it's not like I can just walk into his room and watch it with him. This house seems to alienate people. Like I never talk to my roommates. I mostly spend time in my room alone. And I never invite anyone over because this house is a total disaster. Like it is disgustingly unclean. I've spent some time trying to clean things up, but unless everyone participates it is just a practice in futility. I made cupcakes last week for my coworkers and simply felt awful. If they could see my kitchen I'm not sure they would be willing to eat anything that was cooked in it. Still I could invite people over and hang out in my room. I have my own TV; but this house. I tell people that I don't invite them over because my roommates are weird, but that isn't entirely true. There is just something about this house. Scratch that; there is something about the people in this house. The way we interact is like unhealthy. We all hide away and honestly I never know if anyone is home other than me. (Not really true. When people watch movies or listen to music you can hear it all through the thin walls.) Anyway the point is this house is dirty and my roommates aren't exactly kosher and I am kind of ashamed.
For some reason, finding this house online seemed like a God-sent miracle. I was for reals out of options and then BAM this house showed up, and it turned out being nothing like I thought it was going to be. Somehow that feels like my fault. I made the decision to live here before ever checking out the house (I was desperate, ok?) and so it is my fault that I ended up somewhere unclean and forever away from campus. And with loner roommates. The worst part is that I feel like I deserve exactly what I've gotten, and showing my house to other people would only expose them to the fact that I am a horrible person and don't deserve to live with goody-two-shoe RMs where pictures of the temple decorate the walls.
This doesn't make any sense, but it feels good to write. Half the time when I write I don't say what I really believe. The other half of the time I don't know what I really believe.
My roommate texted me while I was gone for the break and asked when I was going to get back. At the time I thought he wanted to see how long he could throw crazy parties until Marvin Mormon came back to spoil the fun. Now I think he may have just wanted to watch Veronica Mars with me...
