I know, I know. You wanted your roommate to be your best friend forever immediately upon meeting them. Disappointed? What? Those crazy high expectations weren’t met before mid-September rolled around? Tough it up. It could be worse. Your roommate could be a cult leader.
Everything was going great. One week into college and things seem to be almost too perfect. Shopping period wasn’t as bad as everyone said, the lines at the Ratty have been under control, and your roommate… woah. In a word: divine. The most charismatic person you’ve ever met. Almost magnetic. I mean, never before have you seen people flock to a single personality with such fervor. It’s nuts. I guess that’s just the kind of place Brown is, you think. A place where 18-year-olds effortlessly attract the attention of scores of their peers. Did they come here with all these friends, or did they just really kill it at the ice cream social?
But, like, it’s a little weird though. Right? You have this feeling in the pit of your stomach. You message your friends from home. Nothing conspicuous, of course. Just the typical, “Yeah college is s00oooo fun. The usual stuff. Drinking, classes, nothing out of the norm. Do any of ur roommates host really large but pretty tame chanting sessions in your room? Random question, just asking, hope ur good lol.”
Your friends from home aren’t very helpful, but they’re so normal, ya know? Like, what a cool progressive place Brown is. We have orgies here (so I’ve been told)! The non-stop talk of the meteorite and the near-constant opium smoking is just part and parcel of the open curriculum. How fun and quirky! Oh, Brown!
The opium is starting to give you a headache and also maybe you’re kind of addicted but it’s not your fault. It’s your roommate’s. Your roommate starts to tell you that your subconscious resistance to the group’s ideology that meets in your room for four and a half hours every day is starting to get tiresome, and they want to get an RC involved. “No, no, no,” you say. You’ll behave, you think, sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce on a yoga mat with your roommate’s face on it. To prove it, you light the candles, don your ceremonial sweat bands, and pay the seven dollars you always pay your roommate, as per your agreement that you both signed with your blood.
A weird thing happened today. Danny, who always sat on the right of your roommate during the sermon about the void, was nowhere to be found during the bloodstone sacrifice. And when you asked Beth about it, she spun around three times and plucked out a single strand of your hair. Then she whispered, “most displeasing. Most displeasing indeed”.
You decide that your roommate is definitely a cult leader, and you’re all like, “Ugh. Just my luck. I thought worst case scenario was that they’d be a PLME but this is, like, just as bad. Good thing I’m not in the cult”. You think this as you put Elmer’s glue inside all of Danny’s socks. Your roommate told you to and Beth said it would be in the best interest of your pets. But then you think about it and you realize how popular you are. And you’re fine with it. You’re totally good with it. It’s all good.
It’s all good.
PS: If you are having real, non-cult-related roommate trouble, talk to your RC, the Brown University Mediation Project, or psych services about the adjustment. If worst comes to worst, you can switch rooms. But wait it out. It’ll get better.
Unless your roommate is sacrificing goats.