No, no - I'm not a whore... That's just my brother!

... and that's just wrong.

Over a month into the "Freshman Living Situation", and I'm beginning to understand that... single room aside, there is no such thing as dormitory privacy. You'd think I'd have figured that out back in, oh, 2006, when I lugged all of my belongings (and probably a few of my brother's and sister's) in duffel bags and Tupperware boxes into my first college room. Even roommate-from-Opposite-Land aside, I at least had the domicile all to myself from 11:45 p.m to 4:45 a.m... a chance to breathe and stretch out and generally enjoy having all 5 square feet to myself.

[sigh] Oh, the Golden Days.

... okay - now I'll be serious. It is glorious having a living space that I can actually do more than merely spin in a circle when I feel the urge to "get up and move around". Every night, before I turn off the final light, I smile and say a little word of thanks for the fact that, while I'll probably opt to keep any extra space, I could potentially have double my freshman year belongings! (That is, if I don't already - Narnia keeps shoving this mystery stuff that I don't remember owning through my closet.) The greatest bit? A blaring, fire-engine red soccer-mom minivan in which to transport those belongings... It's an improvement on the past with some foreshadowing of the future!

[egad, no!]

It's just... it's just... IT'S JUST THESE CRAZY PEOPLE I LIVE WITH.
No, I can't honestly say that - the girls are wonderful. Young, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, out into the night for Fraternities and Fun.
... [eyes narrow] It is the men that they attract.

I walk down the hall for my evening shower.
There are freshmen boys in the way, tossing around a frisbee.
I return from my evening shower.
The last remaining male, tossing said frisbee, turns to find me with fuzzy towel, towley-hair, and the washed-up look of a drawn-out scrubbing. Cue a five-second period that seems to last for all eternity, in which he stares, clears his throat, and pivots in the slowest manner possible, then my hastened pace through the rest of the hall.
I go to brush my teeth.
As if by signal, one of my students... one of the guys... ducks in to ask me a question, startling me to slightly spit out my mouthful of bright-green Crest foam.
I wake up in the morning, bleary eyed, and haul my arm-ful of dirty dishes down for some good, old-fashioned washing.
Immediately, out pops A, or P, or B, or possible C or the other P... possibly wondering how a single person goes through 4 bowls, 3 spoons, 2 knives, a fork, and the complete works of Shakespeare - er... a coffee maker.
(You may yourself wonder the same thing. It takes a special type of person, let me tell you.)

I'm prone to believe that I would not feel nearly so... well, awkward, if I didn't teach half of the kids on this floor. OR... perhaps... maybe if I weren't an ancient junior trying to disguise myself among noobs.

Perhaps it is time to consider the option of apartment housing, no matter how brilliant the teaching gig seems to be going.

... but then again... my orange fuzzy slippers wouldn't be nearly as fun to wear if I couldn't coordinate them with my burning shades of blushing magenta.