I have met 8 people in the last 48 hours who want to live with me. It’s not a decision to be taken lightly and it’s a bit frightening, truth be told. So I line them up, one after the other, and try and get a sense of who they are. A sense of what type of music will be blasting out of their room on a daily basis. A sense of how often I’ll come home to an apartment full of their friends. A sense of what discussion topics I can expect. A sense of purpose. A sense of pride. The will to live.

The following are all direct quotes taken from the interviewees, and the subsequent grades I marked beside their names in my potential roomate notebook:

I went all the way to the Coachella festival to see the Pixies. A+
This guy was cool, but I think he Googled me before he came over because our likes were just a little too similar. Eerily so. I was waiting for him to tell me that he was secretly Canadian, raised in Manotick and had a father named Gord. Actually, you can’t spit in Canada without hitting someone named Gord. Bad example. But don’t spit on my Dad unless you have good health insurance. Wait, everyone in Canada has health insurance. Dad – get an umbrella.

My boyfriend won’t like that I’m living with a guy. C-
Attractive, pleasant girl. But my name was in the roomate ad. Perhaps she thought “David” might be a girl’s name in inner-city neighborhoods. “Stevie! Did you see the friggin’ rack on David?” I want the half hour I spent listening to you talk about your boyfriend back. And (as an aside) a steak sandwich.

This is an interview? I might not get to live here if I want to? F
No, this is a homeless shelter – and I welcome any mentally deficient pee wafting vagrant off the street who might need a place to crash with open arms. Just pay me the rent when you get around to it. No pressure. What – you didn’t bring your suitcase with you?

Wish me luck people. If you don’t hear from me for awhile, it’s because I let Dahmer move in with me.