About an hour ago, I was sitting in bed watching the last episode of Friday Night Lights before the writers’ strike, and the door burst open. Someone turned on the the disgusting fluorescent light that I never use.
“Hey,” I said warily.
It was Dylan, one of the other guys on my floor. He was wearing a t-shirt and ratty blue boxers. He turned to look at me in such a glazed, slow way and gave one of those long blinks that I could tell he was drunk without even talking to him. He came over and sat down on my bed. I couldn’t really tell what was going on. It seemed like one of those weird situations you read in teen novels where the guy comes in without saying anything and suddenly they just start making out. Dylan picked at my comforter and I realized he was clearly trying to get into bed.
I tried the first guess for what might be going on. “Uh, Dylan, you’re in the wrong room.”
He looked around, seemed to recognize that all the girly posters on the walls weren’t his, and stood up to leave. When he got to my desk by the door, he started to fumble with his boxers. Suddenly, I realized why I was having deja vu.
“DYLAN!” I yelled in the voice I normally reserve for campers about to touch the stove or throw rocks at an animal. “Do NOT pee on my floor!”
Last year, when I was up late watching a movie in my common room, my proctor’s boyfriend used her key card to swipe open into our room. I asked him what he was doing, and he incoherently replied, “It’s fine. Linzee said it was okay.” He was standing in the corner just like Dylan when I heard the sound of liquid hitting the floor. By the time I realized what was going on and yelled at him to get the fuck out of our room and stop peeing all over my roommate’s desk, her stuff was soaked. We ultimately got the last laugh because the story is all over campus now, but I never thought the experience would come in handy later.
