It Just Takes a Little Faith, Baby

I'm a pretty collected kind of guy, and there are few things that get me particularly in a huff. While a relatively limited number people have had the misfortune of tripping these particular wires of death, those that have will probably tell you it was unpleasant, very possibly scary. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The issue to which I currently refer has little to do with interpersonal missteps and everything to do with an OCD nightmare. That's right, I have to move. Again.

Now, had I received the accommodations I requested, all would probably still be well with the world. But fate has a funny way of stepping in and thoroughly leveling one's plans. So rather than a humble studio apartment on a nice, grassy, on-campus location, what do I get? I'll tell you: an 'economy' suite shared with not one, not two, but three other individuals whom I have never met. While I'm sure they're perfectly fine fellows, as any OCD person will tell you, this is not okay by any stretch of the imagination. Just wait until my soon to be roommate finds me huddled in the corner with nothing but the clothes on my back, a jumbo-sized bottle of hand-sanitizer, and a toothbrush.

Aside from this rather severe gaff on the part of my glorious academic institution, I am also quite perfectly satisfied with my living arrangements right now. Each morning/afternoon, I head downstairs and say "Hello!" to Paul, my friendly, Kabbalist security guard. He even recognized me on the street yesterday, leaving the friend with whom I was walking looking mildly puzzled. It's not every day you see a small senior citizen man in dress clothes come running after a young college fellow yelling, "Chris!" The fact that my accompanying friend shares my first name probably did nothing at all to ease the confusion.

And there are so many memories in this building too. Just a small, funny example: this semester was the first in which I witnessed someone attempt to break in my window while I was sitting in front of it. The cops wandering my apartment at two in the morning just stared inquisitively as I recounted the story of the hand appearing beneath the curtain and violently rattling the window, all the while a male voice laughed heartily. Not entirely sure they believed me, that is, until the detective found the guy. He says he's sorry. I didn't press charges. After glancing at this month's Visa bill, I ask myself, "Why?"

As for my neighbors, they may have a slightly different take on my departure. I'd like to think they'll miss my rousing 4 AM renditions of Celine Dion's "Love Can Move Mountains" ("We-ee can GET through the night, we-ee can GET to the li-ah-i-ight, long as we got our love to light the way-EE-AY-EE-AY-EE-AY-EE-AY-AY!"), but truth be told, they probably won't. I know what you're thinking. Don't hate. We all have our traditions. You know you've got yours too.

So after a perfectly pleasant and peaceful semester, it is time to say "goodbye" to this phase, and "hello" to the next. I'm actually looking rather forward to spending summer in the city of Boston. While spending it in 'economy' campus housing next door to a bar that won't even let me through the front door isn't exactly what I anticipated, I will attempt to keep an open mind. I'm also thinking that if I switch my midnight anthem to the J. Geils Band's "Centerfold," there's a good chance I may not even be noticed by my new neighbors.

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