I like my privacy. I don’t particularly like other people. But right now it’s a choice between trying to find one person I can tolerate and two people I know I can’t - my parents.

Ever since they cut my hours at work, I’ve been struggling to make the rent. I have to find a roommate or I’m going to have to give up the place and move home or, more likely, into my 1998 Taurus.

I knew finding someone I could live with wouldn’t be easy, but after four weeks of interviewing, I am losing hope.

There was the red faced dirty bearded guy who rode up on his BMW motorcycle in flip flops and faded Grateful Dead t-shirt. The stench of patchouli mixed with gas fumes when he walked in was enough to end that interview.

Next came the barista. I had hope. She seemed friendly and put together, until she started talking about her feet. It began with a question about my feelings toward being barefoot in the apartment. It turned into a lecture on foot liberation - rejecting the unconscionable practice of confining one’s feet inside “little prison cells.” Apparently there is a vast conspiracy between our government and the shoe industry. Who knew.

These two were followed by a string of “not in a million years” suitors. The drummer who clearly had lost his hearing. The woman who wore underwear on the outside of her pants - “I saw it in Vogue”. The guy who asked me how thin the bathroom walls are. The person who watched too many Big Bang Theory episodes and presented me with a 75 page roommate agreement.

The longer the search went on, the more I lost my faith in humanity. I’d vaguely hoped this might be an opportunity to find a friend. Instead, I was realizing I may have been too hard on my parents.

I decided to give one last person a try before turning in my keys to the landlord. He looked good enough on paper - in graduate school, steady part time job that paid the bills, verifiable rental history.

The doorbell rang just as I was asking myself, “what could possibly be wrong with this guy?” The moment I opened the door, I had my answer. I felt the prongs of the man’s taser penetrate my skin through my t-shirt, my skin burned. I fell to the ground, writhing in pain. While I struggled to avoid blacking out I heard him scowl “that’s for trying to charge me a $250 pet deposit, roomy!”

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