Category Archives: Anecdotes de la Kendall

Burn Burn Burn.

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So on Monday morning I was making myself a cup of coffee before work, as I do every morning, and right as I finished pouring boiling hot water into one of those plastic single-serve funnels that you set on top of your mug, it became unsteady and immediately tipped over onto my right hand. To make a long story short, I worked the whole day with a cold compress rubber-banded to my wrist (which, I’d like to point out, none of my co-workers noticed until about 2pm) before going to the urgent care, where I was bandaged up, diagnosed with a first-degree burn, and sent on my merry way with miles of gauze and some potent painkillers. I’ve been walking around all week with my wrist wrapped up like a mummy and many passersby have given me concerned looks, because what they surmise from my bandages is that I’ve attempted, and failed, to kill myself.

I feel pretty dumb when I have to explain to inquirers exactly how I became a “burn victim.” I am an object of pity, but I sense that most people pity my stupidity and clumsiness more than the fact that my flesh was scalded with boiling water and coffee grounds. I guess I can’t really blame them. Moral of the story: from this moment on, I am leaving my coffee preparation to the professionals.



Since returning to Seattle, I’ve been without a car in the city for the first time since I was a college freshman. Because busses cost money and I’m poor, I’ve opted for walking as my go-to mode of transportation, and strangely enough, I’ve noticed that, as a result of walking, the frequency with which I’m catcalled has increased tenfold. About a month ago, after a particular week of what seemed like endless catcalls, I read a post on Apocalypstick that addressed catcalling and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

As far as I can tell, the point of Almie’s anecdote was to express that she felt weird and a little disgusted with herself for being flattered by this stranger’s catcall, and to question whether or not those feelings of weirdness and disgust were valid. As a lady who gets catcalled fairly regularly and never feels flattered by it, I can say with surety that if the same thing happened to me, I would probably be flattered too. But that’s probably because I think there’s a very distinct difference between a catcall and a compliment, and I don’t see Almie’s experience as a catcall at all.

When I think of a catcall, I think of men sticking their heads out of moving cars like dogs to whistle or shout at you as they pass. It always seems to be a drive-by, or walk-by, experience. When you’re catcalled, there’s no acknowledgment of your distinct personhood or even of your humanity, really; you’re simply being appraised as an object, as a body without a person inside of it, and I suspect that’s at least part of the reason why it’s referred to as a catcall instead of a human-call. A catcall has nothing to do with being complimentary and everything to do with asserting power, like “Woman, I can tell you exactly what I think of the way you look because I’m a man and my opinion is important!” Catcalls strip you of control and force you to be passive, because there’s nothing you can do to counter a catcall: you can’t stop the cat-caller and say “Excuse me, sir, but I’m offended by the way you’re objectifying me” because it all takes place in passing, and you can’t even really shout profanities at them or give them the bird before they’ve made their way out of hearing distance. All you can do is let it happen to you and silently seeth later. All of which is to say: catcalls are not flattering, and in fact, there is no quicker way to make me openly hostile than to utter a catcall in my direction.

And that’s the difference between a catcall and a compliment, as I see it: catcalls make me angry, and compliments don’t. Here’s a story: when I was a senior in high school, I went on a trip to Chicago with my journalism class to attend a high school newspaper convention (right?) and when we had a little free time to explore the city, I found myself in the overwhelmingly huge Virgin Megastore. As I was riding an escalator up to the third floor, a male store employee turned around from his position a couple steps above me and got my attention. He was probably around my age, maybe as old as twenty. But he turned around and with a shy smile he said “Excuse me, I just have to tell you: you’re really beautiful.” And I said thank you, and he smiled more, and then we stepped off the escalator and he went back to work. I think it’s awesome when a male stranger pays me a compliment and then walks away after I’ve expressed my gratitude at their kindness, because that means they weren’t just leading with a compliment in order to get something else, like my phone number or a date. When a man looks me in the eyes and speaks to me instead of at me, and when a man says he’s not trying to hit on me and then doesn’t, that makes me feel empowered instead of powerless, and that’s what a compliment is meant to do. Of course there are exceptions, and men can definitely compliment you to your face in a way that’s sleazy, but my guts tell me when someone is being gross or when someone is being genuine, and I trust that feeling because it has almost always been right. And I like to think that all intelligent women who have a healthy sense of self-worth are intuitive enough to tell the difference, too.

Do you agree? Disagree? What’s your opinion about, or experience with, catcalling?

Capitol Hill Block Party.

Uploaded from the Photobucket iPhone AppMajor Lazer

Oh boy, I had a doozy of a weekend at Capitol Hill Block Party. For those who don’t live in Seattle, Capitol Hill is a super hip Seattle neighborhood just east of downtown, and Block Party is a weekend-long music festival in which the city closes Pike Street between 10th and 13th (much like SXSW, only on a smaller scale) to allow for some serious live music grooving to take place. In spite of my skinny pocketbook (does anyone even use the word ‘pocketbook’ un-ironically anymore?), I decided to buy a weekend pass because a) my good friends Hot Bodies in Motion were playing, b) small outdoor music festivals are awesome (see: Bumbershoot), and c) YOLO, my friends. YOLO trumps every excuse ever.

In hindsight, I definitely made the right decision… and we all know that hindsight is 20/20. It was awesome: good friends, great weather, lots of moderately priced beer, and Seattle dogs, the most divine of all dogs in all of America. My mom even came on Saturday (to see HBIM because she’s a total fan girl, bless her heart), which should give you an indication of how awesome it was. And of course, the music. I saw lots of big names like Major Lazer (overwhelming), Grimes (creepily enticing?), and Neko Case (surprisingly uninspiring), but CHBP, like most music festivals for me, was all about the underdogs.

Uploaded from the Photobucket iPhone AppAllen Stone

First of all, Allen Stone. Good Lord, what a homecoming. After nearly a year of touring the globe and making some big appearances on television (he was on Letterman last night!), and after The Stranger gave him a recommendation in their CHBP preview that was lukewarm at best, he absolutely killed it. Nate was reminiscing about last year’s Block Party, and noted how impressive it was that Allen had accompanied him to CHBP last year as a mere pedestrian, and a short year later, Allen was playing the Main Stage and Nate couldn’t even get close to him because of the enormous crowd of people that came out to watch him perform. Go on, boy, you GROWN!

Uploaded from the Photobucket iPhone AppEl Ten Eleven

Two of the best performances I saw, however, were from two relatively unknown bands: St. Lucia and El Ten Eleven. St. Lucia played on the smaller outdoor stage on Saturday evening, and their set was nothing short of magical: their Caribbean-influenced dance pop was infectious and incited much happy dancing within the crowd, and there was a light breeze that was blowing through all of their hair and it was so picturesque, like a movie, and just perfect in every way. For El Ten Eleven on Sunday night, my friends and I decided to arrive early and stake out a front-row spot, which proved to be genius on our parts because they were mind-blowing. It was just two guys, one on drums and one on guitar (bass and double-headed!), and lots of loop pedals and INFINITE ROCK. I’m so glad that we were so close to the stage because from that short distance, you can really see the joy in the faces of the people performing, and how excited they get when people are grooving to their music and clapping and cheering for them. You could see how much it meant to them, and it was really inspiring and amazing.

Live music is truly one of the best things in the world. I’m convinced of it.

Penny the Destroyer.

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YOU GUYS. I have to tell you about something absolutely crazy that happened this morning. So I’ve mentioned Penny, Nate and his housemates’ dog, and how awesome she is and how much I adore her, right? Well, this morning Nate and Sean, one of his old housemates that is back in Seattle for the weekend, and I all took Penny to the park and were having a grand old time playing fetch with her. They have this little contraption called a Chuck-It, which has a cupping mechanism on the end so that you can use it to pick up and throw a rubber ball instead of getting dog slobber all over your hands, and we were throwing lots of long tosses to try to tire Penny out, to no avail. We were getting ready to pack up and head home when a man and his five-year-old daughter and their dog started walking toward us, and the man asked if his dog could play fetch with Penny too. We try to encourage Penny to make friends, even though her interest lies solely in the Chuck-It the majority of the time she’s around other dogs, so we said sure. The other dog’s name was Clover, and he appeared to be about three years old and just as fast as Penny. Once the game of fetch got under way, the man and his daughter started walking toward the playground within the park and eventually disappeared from sight. We kept throwing long balls and because Penny was already tuckered out, Clover kept beating her on the retrieval. In an attempt to throw Penny a bone (no pun intended), Nate chucked the ball down hard so that it would bounce only a short distance, but high so that Penny could jump for it. But Clover was determined to get it, and when they both went for it, they ended up colliding face-first into each other. The sound of their heads knocking together made a sickeningly audible sound, and we all gasped in horror.

Both dogs looked shaken and paused for a moment like they were trying to collect themselves, but then they both trotted back toward us like nothing had happened. We were ready to resume the game of fetch until we realized that Clover’s mouth was bleeding profusely, so we went and found his owner and explained what happened. We thought that he must have just bitten his tongue or something, but then Sean and I both noticed that Clover’s bottom right canine appeared to be missing. As Clover’s owner and his horrified daughter started walking away to take Clover home and clean him up, Sean walked out to the scene of the collision and started looking around. When he came back, he was holding Clover’s tooth in his palm. The tooth had been ripped clean out, roots and all, and was like three or four inches long. After showing it to us, Sean ran to catch up with the owner to show him the tooth so that he knew what he was dealing with and could take the dog to the vet immediately, all while trying to keep it out of sight of the already-traumatized five-year-old. The owner took the tooth and continued back to his home, and we three and Penny left the park shortly thereafter, but we haven’t been able to stop talking about how crazy the whole thing was all afternoon.

A few things I found interesting about this chance encounter: one, poor Clover. That dog had to have been in so much pain to have his canine knocked clean out of his head, but he didn’t yelp or lie down or even so much as whimper. He came back ready for another round! Which brings me to two: the level of power that ball held over these two dogs is somewhat disturbing. Dogs are not known to be super-rational creatures, but most know better than to blindly and voluntarily crash full-force into another dog, or anything for that matter. That ball was an object of such desire for both Penny and Clover that they would stop at nothing, not even personal injury, to have it. Kind of scary. And three: Penny has no concept of what she did to Clover. Penny walked away without a scratch on her and Clover is going to be disabled by the loss of that tooth for the rest of his life, but to Penny, it was as simple as “We were both running after the ball and I won.” Even though what happened to Clover was ultimately an accident and not anyone’s fault, Sean and Nate and I all felt a degree of guilt over what had happened; as a dog, Penny doesn’t really have the capacity to feel guilt over Clover’s tooth, and now that I think about it, Clover probably doesn’t have the capacity to feel angry about his tooth, either. But it’s interesting, nonetheless, to consider the limited range of concepts and emotions that can be understood or felt by dogs in comparison to humans, and to think about the lack of complexity in Penny’s feelings toward most things, not least of all us, her human companions.

All of which is to say: we’re really glad that physical injury did not befall Penny, and still kind of shocked at the damage our sweet girl accidentally inflicted on another pup. It’s already become a joke, though: we’ve been calling her Penny the Destroyer all afternoon, and I kind of hope that’s a nickname that sticks.


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So I’m in Georgia right now. My mom had neck surgery on Thursday and I flew out here for a week to take care of her as she recovers, but she barely needs me because she’s a champ and a major trooper. That’s just how my mom rolls.

ANYWAY, as I sat on the airplane on Wednesday morning waiting for take-off, I started thinking about how many times I’ve flown on an airplane in my life. I’ve probably taken close to one hundred flights in my twenty-four years, eighteen of which have been since January 1st of this year alone. That’s a lot of time spent up in the air. You would think that many flights would cause a person to become disenchanted with the novelty of flying, and I’ll admit that it does sometimes if I’m really sleepy or if I’m in an aisle seat, but whenever I sit in a window seat (which I did on this flight) I become a little overwhelmed by the phenomenon of flight and the things it enables me to see.

After I took my seat and other passengers continued to straggle on board, I started reading a book. I read it while the plane started backing up, and while the stewardesses gave their safety demonstration, and while the plane slowly ambled toward the position on the runway where it joins the queue and waits for a far-off voice from a radio tower somewhere to give them the go-ahead. But as soon as the plane started picking up speed and careening down the runway toward lift-off, I put my book down to focus on what was happening outside of my window. Because as much as I know that my plane crashing is a statistical improbability, I still always hold my breath a little as the nose lifts up and the plane’s tiny wheels leave the ground, as everything starts to go diagonal, as the pressure that pushes me back into my seat mounts, like the world itself is moving in the opposite direction that I am and trying to take me with it. It’s a feeling unlike any other, and as many times as I’ve experienced it, I still get nervous during the first couple minutes of the ascent and find myself intently watching for the fasten-seatbelt light, the sign that everything will probably be okay, to come on, just like Diane Court in Say Anything.

But then once I’m up in the air, when the plane has plateaued and the fasten-seatbelt light glows a reddish-orange aside the esoteric no-smoking light, its like that nervousness never happened at all. I’m free to look out the window without worry, and when I do, it’s like I’m whirring through an alternate dimension where everything my eye perceives as big becomes infinitesimal. Believe it or not, this flight was the first I can remember that has started out flying northerly, so we flew over downtown Seattle’s skyscrapers and the Space Needle, and then headed east across Lake Washington and the floating bridge and rolling hills of evergreen and over the jagged snow-capped mountains, and it all looked small enough to fit in my palm. It was easily the most majestic and breathtaking view I’ve ever had from a plane. And even as I continued to fly east, I marveled at how the tiny little houses were arranged in perfect grids like graph paper, how the variegated tones of brown farmland fitted together like patchwork, how those white windmills that stand imposing as giants looked the size of a sliver I might pull from my finger. If you’re ever in need of some perspective, look down from three-thousand feet: everything on this earth can be made to feel small.

There’s a quiet magic in flying, a magic that doesn’t boast or draw attention to itself. Even as I watched this miraculous landscape pass by me in miniature, I never gave a thought to the fact that I was sitting inside a metal bird that weighed tons but, through a series of complex processes that I’ve never even attempted to understand, somehow managed to make itself airborne and to soar through the sky with what appears to me to be relative ease. I get to sit down and read a book and have someone bring me something to drink as if I were at home with my mother, and sure, maybe it feels a little crowded, but it mostly just feels really normal. Tell me that isn’t magic!

This Dog’s Life.

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As I mentioned earlier this week, I’m presently/temporarily residing with six dudes and a dog, and the most awesome part of that experience has been the dog. The dudes adopted Penny while she was still just a wee pup back in November, about a month after I moved to Amsterdam, and now she’s about eight months old and has grown into a proper awesome dog. In the spirit of full disclosure, I was a little worried about returning to Seattle and meeting Penny for the first time because I’ve never really been a dog person, and I was afraid I wouldn’t love her as much as Nate and all of his housemates did, if at all. But there’s a first time for everything, and Penny is my first true canine love. She’s seriously the best dog ever. She has the sweetest temperament, and she loves to cuddle, and she’s GORGEOUS. She’s like a supermodel dog. And I know I love her because I never feel put out about having to pick up her smelly shits when I take her on walks or to the park. That’s love, you guys.

ANYWAY, getting to know Penny has made me think a lot about what a dog’s life is like, and how awesome it would be to be a dog. Think about it: dogs don’t have to work or pay rent or worry about any of the things that humans have to worry about. They get to lie around the house all day and can count on someone else to make sure they have food to eat and they get free belly rubs all the time. And they get so excited about someone throwing a ball or a stick and just running after it. I wish I got as excited about ANYTHING as Penny gets about playing fetch. That type of earnest and unbridled joy is beautiful.

I feel like I’m also getting to see the world in a new way through Penny’s eyes, almost like seeing the world through the eyes of a kid. I see how she reacts with a mixture of alarm and perplexity to things like cars and bicycles, and these things that are so commonplace to humans start to appear as strange and magical to me as they do to her. She must think our world is so weird, but when I stop to consider it from her perspective, it is pretty weird. She’s amazed by the most simple things, like someone’s watch reflecting light on the ceiling. She’ll stare at the light intently, her head following it as it moves, and then she’ll tentatively move toward it and jump up on the couch to try to get it. She has a real sense of wonder that few humans are able to retain once they reach adulthood, and it’s really endearing and refreshing.

Yeah, dogs have a pretty good life.

On Living With Other People.

As someone who has only lived alone once, for a mere six-month period, I can say with surety that living with other people is weird. For the first eighteen years of my life I lived with my nuclear family, which is its own distinct brand of weird, but I’ve had a lot of different roommates in the past six years who weren’t blood-relatives, and while most of them were fairly normal as far as humans go, each living situation registered high on the spectrum of weird. Let’s take a walk down my roommate memory lane, shall we?

When I entered college and lived in the dorms, my university, in their infinite wisdom, assigned me a roommate based on a bogus questionnaire that they made us fill out about ourselves and our personal preferences. Everyone else on my floor seemed to get paired with someone that was very similar to them and they all ended up being besties, whereas I could not have been matched with a person who was more unlike me in every way than my freshman-year roommate. She was a physically imposing girl who wore baggy pants and wife-beaters, and kept her hair in tight cornrows. She was really shy and every time I tried to hang out with her she politely gave me the brush-off in favor of sitting in our dorm room and playing Halo alone for six hours straight. I think we probably exchanged 100 words or fewer during the nine months that we lived together, and most of them pertained to whose turn it was to clean the bathroom.

At the beginning of my second year of college, my summer housing plans fell through and I ended up in a two-bedroom apartment with four other girls, sleeping on an air mattress and being woken up at 2am by the sound of glass breaking as drunks flooded out of the bar behind our unit. They were all super laid-back hippie girls who didn’t shave their legs and who didn’t think twice about leaving the front door unlocked at all times, and I was too high-strung to abide such things. After two weeks, I moved into one of the university’s off-campus apartments with two girls. One was a bisexual redhead who took me out for Thai food on the night I moved in and asked me if I would ever kiss a girl, and who routinely woke me up in the middle of the night with her elephantine snoring. She dressed like a punk rock anime character and was really into Japanese culture, and one night she tried to get my boyfriend and I drunk on sake after conning us into watching Battle Royale with her. The other girl was one of the most socially awkward humans I’ve ever met, and I’m positive that we exchanged significantly fewer than 100 words over the course of our living together. She followed her boyfriend around like a shadow so she wasn’t around often, but when she was, you would instantly know by the heaviness of her steps shaking the walls as she stomped around the apartment. She also liked to walk around in her underwear while fiercely avoiding eye contact with me. Another girl moved in halfway through the school year, and she quickly became my ally against the other two and is among only two other roommates I’ve ever had that I  remain good friends with.

For the first quarter of my junior year of college, I lived in a giant house with five other girls. They were all nice girls, but they all drove really nice cars and wore stilettos all the time and watched Sex and the City and shopped exclusively at Nordstrom’s, and not just during the Half-Yearly Sale, and it became apparent very quickly that I was the one-of-these-things-are-not-like-the-others girl in the house. In spite of their collective lack of quirkiness, one of the girls did have a pet boa constrictor named Noodle that she kept in an aquarium tank in the living room. I’m terrified of snakes, but Noodle was really docile and good with people and we ended up getting along all right. From there, I moved into a really dumpy apartment with three other girls, and because there were no hallways in the apartment and you had to just walk through rooms to get to other rooms, I ended up residing in the room you had to walk through to get to the bathroom. As you can probably imagine, I had slightly more than zero privacy. I erected a makeshift partition out of tall bookshelves and a curtain, but it couldn’t deafen the sound of my roommates wandering half-conscious through my sleeping space, bumping into things like zombies while I begrudgingly kissed a night of REM sleep goodbye. During the summer, one girl moved out and two more moved in, so I let the two girls have my hallway bedroom and I moved into a bedroom that was both a) connected to the sun room and b) had a stairway in it that led to nowhere (it went up to the upstairs neighbors’ apartment but was boarded off). Sometimes I would climb to the top of the stairs and just sit there while I talked to my mom on the phone. All of my roommates had bikes that they kept in the sunroom, so they would arrive home and store their bikes and then walk through my room as I slept in order to get to the living room, where they would blast the Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix album loud enough to travel easily through the paper-thin walls and into my still-trying-to-sleep eardrums.

For my final year of college, I lived with two girls I had become good friends with through my then-boyfriend. Unfortunately, the spring before we started living together, there was a big falling-out between myself and another guy in our circle of friends, and the two girls were definitely on his side. I knew it was going to be super uncomfortable and I tried to get out of living with them, but my then-boyfriend asked me to just suck it up and live with them so as not to cause any more problems with his friends. Yeah, he was a real gem. So I lived with them, and it was as uncomfortable as I had expected. I wanted to at least attempt to retain a friendship with them but I always ended up feeling left out, and eventually we got to the point where the only interactions we had were the occasional exchange of pleasantries, and when I knew they were home I would either just hide in my room or leave the house and hide out somewhere else. Once I was done with school, I was still unemployed and they were working nine-to-five jobs, so they would have friends over for elaborate meals in the evening and then leave a sink full of dirty dishes the next day. Seriously, every single day.

I got out of there and lived in a handful of places over the proceeding six months while oscillating between employment and unemployment: in my dad’s boss’s ritzy vacation house in middle-of-nowhere southwest Washington with my brother; in a house in Yakima with my then-boyfriend’s mom, stepdad and seven-year-old sister, wherein I slept in a spare bedroom that was stacked high with hoarder mom’s “treasures” and allowed only a narrow footpath from door to bed; with my then-boyfriend and his roommate in their teeny Seattle apartment, a two-week period that marked the beginning of the end of our relationship; and with my aunt, uncle, and two elementary-aged female cousins in North Seattle, where I lived in their basement, was serenaded with humorous Catholic-school songs by my cousins over breakfast every morning, and felt constantly indebted to them for patiently enduring my presence in their home while I transitioned into a new job and tried to find an apartment and a roommate. I ended up living with one of my best friends’ girlfriend, who I didn’t know very well, and since we had almost completely opposite schedules it was basically like I lived alone, and when we did come into contact with each other it was as two ships passing in the night. It was a pretty okay situation until she and my good friend broke up. Then it was kind of weird because I was trying to be there for her even though I was better friends with her ex, and then she started bringing some unsavory friends into the apartment, the most skeezy of which was a guy named Nic Nic, who knowingly infected my beautiful chaise lounge with scabies when he crashed on it shirtless one night. Ewwwwwww.

So when I moved into a three-bedroom apartment in Amsterdam and my employers asked me if I wanted them to try to find me some roommates, you can imagine why I said THANKS, BUT NO THANKS emphatically. As the cost of living in a one-bedroom apartment, or even a studio apartment for that matter, in Seattle in astronomical, I figured that this was going to be my one chance to live by myself without sacrificing arms, legs and other appendages financially. And honestly, if I separate that living situation from the working situation that was attached to it, it was pretty awesome. There were, of course, times where I missed having another person around, but then I started having conversations with myself in different accents and poof — problem solved. I loved that I didn’t have to worry about closing the bathroom door, that I could belt out power ballads whenever I felt like it, that I could camp out on the couch under a blanket and watch hours of trashy television and eat an entire restaurant-size bag of Ruffles in one sitting, all without the judgment of a roommate falling harshly upon me. I loved that my space extended through an entire apartment instead of being relegated to a single room. I loved being able to make the apartment look the way I wanted it to look without having to try to incorporate someone else’s weird taste in home decor. I loved that it was always my choice to be around people or to not be around people.

Maybe that sounds harsh, but I’m an introvert, okay? I enjoy being around people, but instead of energizing me the way it does for extroverts, it makes me tired to be around a lot of people all the time, which necessitates alone time for me to “recharge my batteries,” so to speak. I wouldn’t call myself a loner, but it doesn’t make me at all uncomfortable to spend time by myself. In fact, I really enjoy spending time alone. I’ve been ruminating on that fact a lot recently, which is ironic because I find myself currently residing in a house with my boyfriend, his five male roommates and their dog. Being the only girl in a house full of dudes is a new experience in itself, but three of the roommates have girlfriends who are often around, so it’s kind of like living in a commune. At any given moment there could be ten people and a dog in the house at the same time, and that gets a little overwhelming sometimes. It’s fun for all of us to cook and eat breakfast together on Saturday mornings or to play board games on a weeknight occasionally, but sometimes I just want to do my own thing and do it in solitude, and that’s difficult when you’re always among friends and don’t want them to think that you’re mad at them or an anti-social alien for leaving the room where everyone else is hanging out to go hang out in the basement by myself. All if which is to say: maybe it’s not everyone else, but me, that makes living with other people so weird. It’s not that I can’t get along with the people I live with, because I’ve generally liked the majority of the people I’ve resided with (or at least found a way to tolerate them if I didn’t), but I think the weirdness level of a living situation, and by extension, my ability to be a good roommate, directly correlates to whether or not I feel that my personal space or my necessary alone time is being threatened. Maybe I feel like my roommate history has been largely weird because I feel I’ve never been able to be as alone as I need to be inside my own dwelling. Or maybe I’m just high maintenance and everyone should try to avoid being roommates with me if they can help it. YOU BE THE JUDGE.