Meranda Watling | Managing editor

Credit: Beth Rankin

I met my roommate the first day of freshman year. I didn’t know anything about her except her area code and that she was a music major.

I quickly learned that she played guitar, smoked pot and stayed up until 3 a.m. almost every single night watching the same movie — Old School — and laughing at the same stupid lines.

Aside from ruining Will Ferrell for me, my roommate ruined my first semester of college.

The first night we spent unpacking and talking. We talked about our friends and our families. We talked about our music, our hobbies and our futures. And we talked about her boyfriend.

“How old is your mother?” she asked.

My mom was 45. Apparently, so was my roommate’s boyfriend.

My 17-year-old roommate couldn’t understand why I found it repulsive that a man more than twice her age was lusting after a not-even-legal teenager.

I went home every time her beer-gut toting, bald-headed boyfriend came down and avoided the room I was paying $2,500 for each semester.

During the same period, our room also inherited a third roommate. One of her friends stayed every night and spent daytimes on my futon watching Olsen twin videos.

We basically played chicken with each other’s will power. I wasn’t budging. She was wrong. Things fell apart anyway.

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I finally found the words I wanted to say all semester. It was 3 a.m. and we were shouting across the tiny room.

I said her boyfriend was a pedophile, or might as well be. She said I was narrow-minded.

I said her friend had a room on campus and ought to use it. She said her friend had a right to be there.

It was the last conversation we ever had. The next weekend was Thanksgiving, and she never came back.

I don’t know what happened to her. I don’t know if her parents found out that their innocent Catholic schoolgirl was sleeping with her boss. I don’t care. I lived in misery for almost an entire semester because I didn’t have a backbone, because I didn’t believe in standing up for myself.

Do yourselves a favor. If you and your roommate don’t see eye to eye, talk about it now.

If you can’t stand your roommate, don’t put up with it. You’ll only regret it later.

And if you’re the one abusing the roommate relationship, be the bigger man: Move out. Your ex-roommate will love you forever.

Meranda Watling is a junior magazine journalism major and managing editor of the Summer Kent Stater. Contact her at [email protected].