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Confessions of a 20-something #17

Graphic Jenny Kwan

On used condoms, bra stealing, and the real struggle to find a reliable (and sane) roommate

I still remember how relieved I felt when I found your ad on Kijiji: you said you were moving from Ottawa, and looking for a room close to school. There I was, alone, struggling to pay rent in a 3 1/2. It was meant to be. I moved into the living room when you arrived, accompanied by a friend you didn’t tell me was also going to be moving in with us.

After two weeks, the janitor called me to say it wasn’t his job to catch diseases picking up the used condoms that your friend was throwing off the balcony. OK, just a minor setback, right?

A few days later, your friend decided she had enough. She left, telling me I would see you for who you really were. I’m sorry to say it took five months for those words to come true, but when they did, it was time we went our separate ways.

Now I see you in all your glory, and I still don’t get you. You are so abnormal to me; you fascinate me. I just can’t stop thinking about you. I’m sorry you had to block me on Instagram and set your profile to private because you think I am obsessed with you.

The despicable truth is that, in a way, I am sorry. I wanted to apologize properly, so I wrote you a poem called “A public apology to my ex-roommate.” Forgive me if it’s a little rusty:

 I’m sorry I can’t stop agonizing over the pictures you posted on Instagram wearing my clothes while I was away in Africa.

I’m sorry I still burst with frustration when my girlfriends and I recall the unfulfilled lives of our new lipsticks that you used, without asking or telling, and squashed to uselessness.

I’m sorry I am mourning the loss of my earphones, my headphones and my lip gloss. Taking without asking is stealing, by the way.

I’m sorry I still wonder why you felt victimized after I accused you of losing my scissors and my Tupperware. I’m sorry I invaded your privacy by searching your room, and I’m sorry I found them in there.

I’m sorry I also found my bras and my panties in there too. Were you obsessed with me?

I’m sorry you’re still a kid. I’m sorry you’re fresh out of high school, in a new city, without mommy or daddy to clean your bathtub or to flush your poop down the toilet. Enter moi.

I’m sorry I cannot get over my disillusionment. I’m sorry that I used to think people who did wrong were subject to remorse, pangs of conscience.

I’m sorry I took the bait when you tweeted about me and aired our dirty laundry for all to see.

I’m sorry I let you get away with all of it and I’m sorry I believed your lies. I’m sorry I welcomed you and introduced you to my friends, making an effort to get to know you.

I’m sorry I shared everything I love with you: my friends, my family, my movies, my Sopranos.

I’m sorry I thought the better of you and that you will never own up to being wrong.

I’m sorry I met you. I can’t get over how ugly of a person you are and I’m sorry you don’t see it.

P.S. I’m sorry if you got a yeast infection. Next time, don’t use cotton underwear.

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