Putting up with your "other half": The Bad

You've been thrust from your cushy pad at home into a cramped double with a stranger you've never met before. You're hoping for one of two things: that your roommate will be a cool person and you'll become great friends; or, if this is not the case, that you can at least get along with him or her.

One of my favorite roommate stories is about a friend of mine and his "mystery subletter." This summer, before my friend's roommate had left town, he had told the friend that a subletter, an old acquaintance, would be arriving shortly. So my friend was not startled when he returned to his apartment one night to find his roommate's door closed, light peeking from underneath.

As my friend settled into his nightly routine, minding his own business, he heard a distinct sshing! ... sshing! ... sshing! coming from his roommate's room. He knocked on the door and met Chuck, the subletter, as well as his full set of large, shiny knives.

Luckily, it turns out that Chuck is a chef.

Most people have heard a roommate horror story of some sort. Fortunately for my friend, Chuck turned out to be an OK guy, although he did once put my friend's glasses on top of the fridge after my friend fell asleep on the couch.

The story of my freshman-year roommate is quite different. Anxious to get along with one another, we met in early August, a month before school started. After lunch and ice cream in Fells Point, we both declared our relief that we did indeed like each other.

But something went horribly wrong. Perhaps it was the stress of a new lifestyle. Whatever it was, the atmosphere in our Jennings double began to tense and sour sometime mid-September.

My roommate, a pre-med, changed from a night owl to an early bird to accommodate her early-morning science classes. Lights went off in our room by 10 p.m., and her alarm went off at 8 a.m. the following morning, an hour before mine. I studied sitting in the hallway, but woke her every time I entered the room.

We never really said anything to one another. We just stopped talking.

There were other incidents, too. The TV we had agreed we didn't want appeared on top of our dresser. I once returned at 4:30 a.m. to find a note on the door requesting I knock loudly before entering.

Her friends named their little clique the "horny bitches." My friends blasted rap or punk music and left their rooms, locking the door --- to piss off her friends.

When the end of the year came, we piled our belongings into boxes amidst summer's sweltering heat, and suddenly, freshman year was over. Done. We'd passed our classes, selected new rooms and roommates in Wolman and McCoy for sophomore year, and, well, we'd never have to see each other again if we chose.

And for some reason, we both felt sad. As our families helped us carry out a year's accumulation of textbooks and clothes, we hugged, acknowledged that at times we hadn't got along (to state it mildly) and pledged to stay in touch.

Since then, I've literally seen her no more than five times. That day more than two years ago was the last time we spoke.

To this date, I only know why I grew annoyed with my roommate. I don't know what problems she had with me, because we didn't talk.

Instead, we'd yell at each other every month or two.

Several roommates later, I've learned that this is not the way to build good karma. I've chosen to talk with, not yell at, all my subsequent roommates.

Sophomore year, my roommate and I had several conversations that probably went something like this: "What on earth did you do to the kitchen? It looks like Las Vegas." "Oh, that? Christmas lights were on clearance at Kmart."

Or, "Next time, can you not invite your boyfriend over the night before my orgo test?" "Sure, no problem."

And sometimes, "Is that green stuff in the fridge yours?" "The vegetables?" "No, I think it's meat." "Hm, maybe we should clean the kitchen."

While we definitely were getting antsy by move-out day, we still get along. This is convenient, because we still live together. She's a good roommate, and I think she'd say the same about me.

For the record, I have never placed her glasses on top of the fridge.