Sweet jealousy

If you read today’s Daily, you probably noticed my article, yet another roommate exposition. It’s time to face the facts: if you live in my apartment, you will eventually be the topic of a feature-length article in UW’s student newspaper. I was none too enamored with my working copy, but my editor absolutely loved it, as this excerpt from her email makes clear: “Wow – I really really like that. It’s a little deeper than I normally expect from you, but damn good and definitely funny.” I think it’s kind of sad that I write about my roommate discussing the happiness of dogs and it qualifies as deep. I must have been managing the hell out of her expectations.

Maybe you think it’s not fair that Bryan gets his own feature while you, who have done so much more for me over the years (driving me to the airport, killing that Thai hooker for me, nodding and pretending to listen as I described everyday events with grandiose language) and are therefore much more deserving of the honor, get this post. Give me another quarter, after which I’ll really be grasping at straws, and then I’ll write about you. But be careful what you wish for; even when on my best behavior my descriptions of people exude a quiet mockery, and no one’s ever accused my writing of being too firmly grounded in reality.

The article was Bryan’s last memento of this town, as his mother and sister arrived at noon to carry him back to Vancouver, from where he’ll leave tomorrow for Mexico. I didn’t realize until coming home from work how much he contributed to the decor; the little hooks where we hung the paintings he brought gleam sadly on the walls, and the white space behind the giant red banner of Che Guevara seems especially poignant in its absence. He did leave me an original piece he painted while staying here, which helps matters.

What’s worse is that Bryan’s done all the cooking for the last month, meals whose succulence is rivaled only by their fat content, and the gravy-train stops here. Strike that – it didn’t just stop, it jumped the tracks, and I was thrown from the first-class dining car right into a run-down Vietnamese restaurant somewhere in the Deep South. You might be wondering what business a Vietnamese restaurant has being in the Deep South, and I’d reply: about as much business as I have trying to prepare a meal in my kitchen. I’ve basically forgotten how to fend for myself, so it will probably be back to frozen waffles and Ramen noodles for a while until I grow bold enough to break out the wok.