Dear Doily: My Roommate’s Sousaphone is Too Damn Big
Actually, Nevermind. I Just Hate That He Goes to More Parties Than Me.
Dear Doily,
I can’t do it anymore. Why does my band-kid roommate come home every night plastered while I’m up scrolling on Instagram reels, sulking over my chronic loneliness and inability to make any worthwhile friends?
I grow jealous at the thought of wondering what he was doing or who he was with at those parties. I don’t even want to know. You know what? I don’t even care that I trip over his sousaphone every time I walk in the dorm—I just hate him and his apathy.
It just doesn’t MAKE SENSE, I wasn’t even mean to the band kids in high school. Why should I suffer the karmic consequences of things I didn’t even do?
Did I laugh when the twirler threw up all over the field during halftime? No. Did I laugh at the most popular band kid for being gay while simultaneously touching my football teammate in the back of class? No. Did I bully my friend with the Squidward-esque nose for playing the clarinet? Yes, but that’s besides the point.
Since when did band kids go to parties, let alone HOST their own parties? Was this also happening in high school? Am I dumb? God.
My roommate shows me the cases of alcohol they buy for the parties every weekend, and every time I ask if I can come, he says, “You gotta be invited, sorry man.” What do you mean?! I can’t just go to one party with you? I thought we were supposed to be roommates.
One night I was so distraught that my roommate rejected me—rejected me asking to go to one of his parties, that is, that I wrote this poem in my sorrow on a Friday night:
Deserted
Deserted—me, my tongue, or both?
You held an oath, only to break it once we spoke,
a promise swept: nights of me and you, drinking with your chest
pressed against mine, whispering in my ear that “I’m the best”
guy to “drink” with, lips wrapped around your bottle.
Swigging, for just a minute thinking of the consequences,
You often said it: that I’m you in your reflection,
Completed, like erasing to some sloppy sketches,
Revealing what’s deep within, as the clock strikes eleven
we dance, prance and forget, believe we’re destined…
But now I sit alone, without you, my brethren,
and a drink that’s just
a slurpy from
7-Eleven.
I want him. I want him to hang out with me, drink with me. I have no one else to drink with. It’s so hard to make worthwhile friends, I’ve approached a few people and got their social media, but it never sticks. Ever.
When will it be my turn? I’m tired of him rejecting me, I know he can just say that I’m his roommate and they’ll let me into the parties. Does he just not like me? I’m having a crisis. I need him. I need alcohol. Please give me some advice, Doily, if you can.
Distraught,
A Deserted Freshman
Dear Deserted Freshman,
We hear your concerns. It’s not easy finding friends Freshman year, and the pain certainly does not ease up upon hearing the news that your roommate is a sousaphone user. We’ve compiled a list of advice that will hopefully help you along your journey as a Freshman:
Regarding the sousaphone: Explain your issues with space to your roommate and try to work out the problems, amend your roommate agreement if you must!
Go to clubs and events that pique your interest, you’re sure to find friends that you’ll feel comfortable being with and even drinking with!
Finally, confront and ask your roommate if the romantic feelings are mutual. It’s best to be honest early on so as to not let your real feelings bubble and spill over at a random point in the year. Be honest and take initiative now; ask him on a date!
Good luck with your endeavors regarding friends, partying, alcohol, and your lovely roommate.
Yours Truly,
The Doily Allergen