Finding out about my roommate makes the whole university experience feel that much closer. I can't wait to start communicating with her so that we can get to know each other over the summer and help each other move our things into residence.
|As of September 1st, this will be my new home.|
But I'm equally excited to have found out which residence I will be living in: Cochran.
At King's, there are two large residence buildings called Alexandra Hall and the Bays. Cochran is located in the Bays, which is amazing for about ten thousand different reasons. First off, I have a shared suite! This means that I have my own private space while still having the roommate experience. Our bedroom is separated by a wall, and united with a door. So if I need to study, I don't have to ask her to "keep it down." If I want to go to bed early because I have a test in the morning, no problem. If either of us invites a friend over and wants
What's also nice about the Bays building is that there are four floors in this building, three of which are inhabited by boys, where as Alexandra Hall is mostly dedicated to girls. The other two floors in Bays are co-ed, which means that I was able to get exactly what I wanted. I know a lot of you are probably thinking that I only wanted a co-ed floor so that I could watch the boys walk back and forth to their rooms wearing nothing but a 100% Egyptian cotton towel wrapped around their built hips, and that I plan to impatiently huff outside of my door because, "I forgot my key and my roommate is out", therefore making the hot guy next door seem
like an asshole if he doesn't notice me being upset and inviting me to "chill" in his room. Just kidding. Kind of.
What I think is nice about living on a co-ed floor is that there are less girls to share the bathrooms with. I definitely plan on doing my hair and makeup in the privacy of my own bedroom, but when it comes to taking lengthy showers and shaving my legs, there will be less girls to fight over it with. Speaking of fighting, guys are just so much easier to get along with. They don't spill your secrets, they couldn't care less if you don't wear designer jeans (what's True Religion, anyway?), and they encourage you to eat more pizza rather than raising a thin, manicured eyebrow and saying, "A moment on the lips, forever on the hips." I love boys.
When my friend Jeanny and I were talking about roommates, she made a joke about what I would do if some super nerdy boys were living next door. I like to think that if it does happen, we could turn into our own mini Big Bang Theory gang. Actually, this thought has almost made me hope that the boys next door are nerdy, because really, what girl wouldn't love to eat Chinese food on the couch with a group of guys who have their PhDs and talk about string theory and evolution for fun? Sounds like the ideal living situation to me! So far I've already been in touch over Facebook with a few people on my floor, and everyone seems really cool. I plan on being an active member in making sure that Cochran is the most fun floor in any residence that Halifax has ever seen.
I hope that when I'm in university, I have a stalker. Not someone who is a potential treat to
myself or society, just someone who becomes infatuated enough with me to memorize my schedule so that they can send fresh flowers to my Journalism 101 class, slip cologne scented love poems under my door signed "Anonymous", and play the accoustic guitar beneath my window at night. Is that too much to ask? Oh well. All in good time.
On a less creepy note (I have a feeling I'm going to majorly regret this if a stalker actually is in
|Shoe tester... Is that a real job?|
While you're sitting on a stool drinking alcohol served by a man with mullet who pretends to care about your failed marriage, he's also had ten thousand other customers do the same thing - ask him for advice. They must hear the craziest things, and I can't imagine how many relationships begin and end right in front of their eyes.
And the hairdresser? Oh man... I'm pretty sure that Omar, my super stylish, laser-whitened-teeth, aqua-eyed Cuban hairdresser knows more about my life than my diary. He. Knows. Everything. There's something so special about sitting in a comfortable chair while a hot man massages your scalp with older women sitting around you who all want to know the juicy tidbits on your young life. The trust factor may also have something to do with the fact that his job requires a pair of scissors to be in his hands at all times. I love my hairdresser. I get to leaf through magazines, chat with Omar, and come out with better hair. What's not to love?
Ok, ok... So maybe this whole rant was to proclaim my love of alcohol and good hair. But so what? As long as the hairdresser isn't drinking, I can't imagine it being a problem.