Well, you’re fucked, bro. And I don’t use the word “bro” lightly. In fact, I hate the word “bro.”
Maybe if you hadn’t decided to major in English Literature with a minor in Classical Literature and languages, then you’d have a better job and enough money to move, bro.
Seriously, what were you thinking: “I want even my MINOR in college to be useless”? Is that what you were thinking? “Boy this ability to translate ancient Greek will really come in handy someday!”? …Is that what you were thinking?
Tala est kala. That’s ancient Greek for “You’re fucked.”
And you have to sleep in the same bed as her too now, because there’s only one bed.
And she hogs all the blankets, but you can’t mention a petty thing like that.
Really, let’s drop the TC-esque second person plural bullshit and stop pretending that we’re talking about “you.” We’re not talking about you. We’re talking about me. This living with the ex bullshit is happening to me. I’m sure that your problems are very interesting as well, but they’re not mine, so I could give a shit. Or, to quote Philip Larkin: “Yours is the harder course, I can see. On the other hand, mine is happening to me.”
Do you go with her to your other roommate’s birthday party?
But the party will held at a club.
You don’t dance, you would rather die than dance.
And if you drink, your ex will get pissy.
So, no drinking, no dancing, so what are you doing then, just standing there at a club, wishing that you were un-shy enough to approach girls without the aid of alcohol?
Or do you stay at home instead?
On a Friday night.
Imagining all the while your ex dancing with hot guys at a club.
Fun.
At what point do I change my Facebook status?
If I jump from the window of this apartment, is it high enough to kill me?
Because we’re only two stories up.
Do these windows even open outwards?
I’m never changing my Facebook status again, not even if I get married.
