NO SMOKING INSIDE.
Hmm.
BRING YOUR OWN MICROWAVE.
Yup. This is good, good stuff. I sway on my living room rug, cross legged by the coffee table, and frown at my work so far. My empty dessert bowl sits near my elbow, with nothing left except an inch of melted ice cream, the scent of bourbon fumes tickling my nose.
How many times have I refilled that bowl already? Two times? Three? The sickly sensation in my stomach says three.
Stars glitter through the open curtains, the sounds of traffic drifting up from the street below. My apartment. My beautiful safe place. Why, oh why do I need to share it with some random person? This sucks.
I hiccup, tapping my fingernail on the coffee table, because self pity will get me exactly nowhere. So what else would a roommate want to know in advance? What else do I need to write?
NO LIARS.
NO THIEVES.
Okay, now I sound rude.
I CAN FIX ANY RIPS IN YOUR CLOTHES. YOU CAN BORROW MY IRON IF YOU LIKE.
Perfect! I scan my ad to double check for typos, so pleased with myself as I reread each line. Maybe it’s brusque, but it’s all stuff I’d want to know before renting somewhere, and what else is there to say, really?
Have room, will let. No thieving jerks this time, please. I put the monthly rent and bills, then place the ad with a single click.
Done. Finished. My roommate listing is out there swimming in the digital ether, and I’m at the mercy of the universe once again.
I flop back onto the rug, stare at the spinning ceiling… and try not to cry.