Great Balls of Lies

My Very Worst Roommate was a stranger, randomly assigned as per our landlord, on the day I moved in to our home. I didn’t complain, as it was a cheap place in a good location, and he seemed like a normal guy. That was before his catastrophic, slow-burn personal life meltdown during our second semester.

First, his long-distance relationship started to fizzle, and he became rather clingy with me and my friends. Eventually, it became clear to me that it had completely broken. He began sleeping more and more, complaining about her, telling me stories how she’d broken his heart. All of a sudden, he stopped talking about her. Shortly there after, the local police arrived to serve him a restraining order – from a girl 1,500 miles away.

Some time after this episode, he was diagnosed with testicular cancer. I felt bad and tried to hang out with him so he wouldn’t feel so alone. Apparently the pain was so bad that he moved into the living room – the floor, not sofa – and slept there from 8a.m. until 4p.m. every day, since “the bed exacerbated the pain.” This was about the time my girlfriend suspected that he was pulling a fast one on us.

We drove him to the health clinic, whereupon he promptly walked back to our apartment. I should have known when his ideal daily treatment consisted of waking up at 4p.m., getting McDonald’s and a bottle of vodka, and medicating himself with sitcom reruns until I left for school the next morning.

He somehow managed to get a medical withdrawal from school, and moved out a few weeks later. But not before leaving a ton of belongings behind “for me,” absconding with the landlord’s television set and several months unpaid rent. Where did he go? Off to Texas to wait tables and save money, because he was going to some school in Thailand to learn how to train whales. A guy at the San Diego Zoo was going to get him a job upon his return. In his mind, I have no doubt this was true.