Kalah Allen

Former roomie, you weren’t a good one. Sure, you always paid your rent and bills—but I had to constantly remind you, and I’m not your mom. Then there were the repeated hints about the shared cleaning. Whether it was the basic cleaning up after yourself or shared chores, you always needed a nudge. I’m not here to hold your hand. I have problems of my own. But I was done the night I saw you eating your cheese puffs. It wasn’t that you ate the whole bag. It wasn’t that you didn’t offer to share. What was absolutely appalling was the way you kept chomping down, sucking all your fingers, eating more, touching your phone, and wiping your fingers on your pants and shirt. The same pants and shirt you sleep in your bed with and not wash. Then came the curtain call: You reached for the remote. The same remote I’d used. The same remote that made me wonder, “What the fuck is this crust around the buttons?” There’s no learning these things. It’s common sense. I wish I could’ve been out of there that night.—Anonymous