Roomie Wars Box Set

“You know, that shirt doesn’t have much life left in it. Another spill and I think it’s time to part ways,” Drew happily points out while blocking my view of the television.

“Oh, hello, roomie! Nice to see you. How was your day, Zoey? Fine thanks, Drew,” I comment.

“Hi, Zo, how was your day?” He humors me.

I don’t even give him a chance to sit down and start ranting about my shitty day at work which began when my asshole boss walked into the office with a chip on his shoulder. I refer to that chip on his shoulder as his s

tay-at-home wife, who I believe is having an affair with the electrician. There’s only so many bulbs that need replacing.

“So, then he says to me, ‘I sent you that email yesterday, Zoey, to be acted on today,’ and I’m like, it was to order paper for the photocopier. The receptionist does that. I’m supposed to be your right hand learning about architecture and studying blueprints and not fetching paper.” I let out a huff, barely catching my breath. “Anyway, how was your day?”

“A woman died on the table today. Complications with a breast augmentation done by some backyard surgeon.”

His face remains placid, and I struggle to comprehend how someone can watch that happen and then carry on as if it’s an ordinary day. Plus, I’m a douchebag for rambling on about my problems.

I twist my body and sit up straight. “I’m sorry. God, I sound like an idiot with my first-world problems.”

“I like your first-world problems. But seriously, Zo, get rid of the shirt. And what’s with the pink earrings?” He grimaces.

Drew likes to joke around, but this is taking it too far. Shirt jokes are not well received. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation, and it won’t be the last.

“Do you know how long I’ve had this shirt? And if I get rid of this shirt, you get rid of your SpongeBob shirt.”

“You owned it before you had a pair of tits. Your auntie gave it to you on your thirteenth birthday. You almost lost the shirt in your move back in 2000, and you cried for a week till you found it buried in a box labeled fragile,” he says all in one breath. “And the answer is no. SpongeBob stays.”

“Okay, Mr. Know-It-All,” I sneer. “My point is it’s still in great condition, and this stain would easily come out.”

Truth be told, this shirt has only a few weeks left, a couple of months tops. The last time I ran it through the wash, Rainbow Brite lost her dress, leaving only the outline of her head. The holes keep getting bigger, and the ketchup stain is a reminder the fabric is so fragile that even the best of stain removers won’t work. This shirt is my comfort zone, and I have a terrible habit of holding on to things from the past.

Like my ex, Jess.

Don’t think about that dirtbag now.

“There’s holes all over the back. And Zo... I think your nipples are showing.”

I look down in horror. Bullshit. In fear of losing my shirt at this very moment, I stretch my arms and remove it, standing in the living room only wearing my white-laced bra.

“Happy? I’ll soak it now.”

His eyes wander to my breasts, and he does that thing with his lips where he bites the corner. Boy, does it annoy the shit out of me! The same bite that supposedly got women into his bed at the drop of a hat. “Hey, just looking out for your shirt.”

I mumble something about him being a dick on the way to the bathroom. Placing my shirt in the sink, I run the hot water and let it soak with some stain remover praying for a miracle before heading to my room and opening my wardrobe.

As usual, my wardrobe is full, yet I have nothing to wear. Rephrase—nothing that fits.

The right-hand side is jam-packed with designer dresses and skirts that no longer zip up, and the few hangers on the left-hand side hold a couple of new pieces I was forced to buy. Otherwise, I’d be wearing only my birthday suit every day.

I tug the gray tank off the hanger and quickly put it on. The full-length mirror is positioned next to the wardrobe, and stupid me stops to examine myself. I take a deep breath to control the anxiety that seeps its way through when I see how much weight I’ve gained.

For some reason, I have no idea how to stop the vicious cycle I fell into of eating and sitting on the couch. My gym membership continues to be debited from my account, yet I haven’t stepped foot in a gym in over a year. The motivation, willpower, and drive for success in all areas of my life has disappeared into thin air.

Turning to the side, the extra skin across my belly sits comfortably on my sweatpants. Muffin top. And is it wrong that the word ‘muffin’ makes me hungrier? If Drew weren’t my roomie, I would probably smash this mirror to pieces with how angry I am at myself for getting to this point. But I know better than to be destructive, and I head back to the living room ignoring my inner demons.

I plonk myself back on the couch with the remote in hand. It’s not long before a delicious aroma enters the living room, and I breathe in the exotic spices making my stomach growl in anticipation. Drew is humming away some tune to a familiar song. We didn’t exactly see eye to eye with music. Drew liked modern funk or whatever the crap they play in clubs, and I’m all about the eighties. Madonna is—and always will be—the goddess of music.

“Whatcha cooking?” I yell out.

“Do you really want to know?”