To Lucas, My University-Designated Rooming Person,

I would first like to thank you for being a tolerant and non-judgmental friend. I thank you for understanding why it is important to play Arctic Whale Songs, tracks three, seven, and eleven at startling volumes each night as we try to sleep. I thank you for taking all my violent accusations with a gentle spirit, and not pressing charges when I cut off your girlfriend's unsymmetrical ponytail. I thank you for waiting in the hallway for exactly thirteen minutes every morning while I change out of my jammies and examine my body for any new moles or lumps that might have surfaced over night. Also, I thank you for recognizing how truly important it is to store my urine in gallon Ziploc bags in the mini-fridge alongside your sodas and perishable comestibles. You've exemplified noteworthy dedication to diplomatic cohabitation, and there's not much more I can ask of you. Except the following seven things:

1)You often fail to pronounce hard consonants at the end of words. For instance, "I am going to dinner, ?an' then to night class." In my desk (under three red pencils and a long eraser standing edgewise) is a list of seventy-nine instances in which you misspoke in the last seven days, and if we could schedule a bit of time for you to repeat each questionable phrase with correct emphasis on the correct letters, it'd really relieve a lot of stress for both of us, I'm sure.

2)Each night I knock on the bed rail eleven times, assuming you know the proper response is to knock ninety-seven times, because this is how we say good night. Instead, usually you knock once or twice, and oftentimes you fall asleep before I have the opportunity to knock, which is inconsiderate, because I then cannot fall asleep.

3)Your weight is alarming. With no access to your medical records, I estimate you weigh in the ballpark of two hundred seventy to three hundred pounds, which is seventy to a hundred pounds more than I'd prefer. I have consulted three dieticians, and we have drafted a roots & nuts diet for you to begin on Tuesday of the coming week. I have sent portions of it to you in nineteen separate emails.

4)Your hair gel is too loud.

5) The penalty for viewing the contents of the manila folder clearly labeled SHAPES THAT ARE INTERESTING TO LOOK AT in black permanent marker is death. I'd hide it under my bed, but for strict personal reasons it must remain on your bookshelf. Never open it.

6)Can I have access to your medical records? I trust that you would've disclosed any past diseases or illnesses in the confidentiality reports we filled out together at the beginning of the semester, but it'd be nice to certify everything. Not saying that I don't trust you, but I will say that I find it exceedingly difficult to trust fat people*.

7)If you still refuse to speak sentences in the key of C minor (which literally makes NO SENSE not to), the least you can do is wear clean socks over your hands while you type. Let's be adults.


PS: I wrote this letter between the hours of two and three o'clock PM. The blinds were completely lowered. Approximately three students walked past our door. None of them read this letter. Your purported location was Modern Middle East (HIS345), where I confirmed in an email correspondence with the professor that a quiz on Yemen took place.

PPS: While I only listed seven ideas for betterment, I have another three on a separate document, but could not send them in the same document because ten is not a prime number.

* My father once gained twenty pounds in a rough bout of unemployment. To be safe, I removed all metal things from his room, and showed doctored photographs to my mother suggesting an extramarital affair, after which he spent eight weeks in a Motel 6, finally returning home once employed and back to a reasonable weight.