And so we come to part three of my cohabitation history. This particular story is very difficult to tell because words fall so pathetically short of being able to accurately portray it. It has been endlessly frustrating to write this because it always looks so diluted on paper. Storytelling has a tendency to focus on isolated incidents and, though there were some very powerfully disturbing isolated incidents during my time with Ashley, the most disturbing parts of the story are the parts that are not particularly interesting to tell. The parts that cannot be fully understood when liberated from their marriage to daily-ness. Add to this the sheer complexity of Ashley's character and you can understand how I feel like I have failed you with this piece. As a temporary fix - until I can nurture the ability to tell this story the way it should be told - please imagine everything I say to be at least 130% greater in magnitude. If I say "there were 10 dildos" you should imagine that I said "THERE WERE 23 FUCKING DILDOS!!!" It is imperative that you do this. Do you understand?
Oh, and there weren't actually 23 dildos. That was just an example.
There was one dildo though. But there might as well have been 23 of them. That's my point. In order to grasp how I felt about this one dildo, you need to first picture that there were ten dildos and then remember that I told you that ten dildos actually means 23 dildos and then you'll be somewhat close to actually understanding how I felt about the solitary dildo.
Fuck it. I'm just going to start telling you the story and you can imagine however many dildos you want. As long as there are a lot of them and they are very menacing.
Ashley
Just before Christmas break, Julie moved out. Another girl who had also been rejected by her roommate had been selected to fill Julie's place.
Ashley was the antithesis of Julie. She was, shall we say, anal expulsive. It's a real term, look it up.
Anyway, I knew something might be wrong as soon as Ashley started moving her stuff in. There was a lot of stuff. Then more stuff. Then stuff on top of the stuff. And finally, knick-knacks. Hundreds of knick knacks which weren't actually knick-knacks but there's no term for "items that have no business being on display for any reason whatsoever and appear to serve no purpose despite being present in such large numbers."
In other words, I am not talking about porcelain angels and whimsical farm animals. I am talking about empty mayonnaise jars, a plastic coffee mug in the shape of Arnold Schwarzenegger's face, a flyswatter that was shaped like a marijuana leaf, troll dolls, Happy Meal toys, a decapitated Barbie and an out-of-date calendar.
Ashley set these items on top of every horizontal surface in our room. If I wanted to use my textbooks, I first had to move Arnold Schwarzenegger's face. My computer desk was littered with Happy Meal toys and troll dolls.
I was concerned about the disappearance of horizontal space upon which to set things. I said "Um... Ashley... I, uh... where are we going to set stuff?"
Ashley: "Oh, don't worry - you can move these when you need to set something here."
Me: "But where should I put them?"
Ashley: "Oh, I don't know - maybe just move them to the edge of the desk or set them on top."
Me: "On top of what?"
Ashley: "On top of what you needed to set down."
Me: "What if I need to set down something that isn't flat?"
Ashley: "Then maybe move my stuff to the edge or something."
Me: "What if I set down something that is very large and also not flat?"
Ashley: "Maybe then you can move my things to the floor next to the desk, or just put them on my bed."
Me: (Nothing. I had run out of counter-arguments.)
I wanted to say "I do not understand how it makes sense to have to move an empty mayonnaise jar every time I need to use my desk" but I didn't say that. Because I am a coward. And I honestly wanted to get along with Ashley. I didn't want Ashley to freak out about the knick knacks like Julie had freaked out about the crackers.
I like to think that I am a pretty unflappable person. In college, I touched a cadaver penis with my bare hands. I watched "Two Girls, One Cup" without even a hint of emotion (WARNING: If you haven't seen "Two Girls, One Cup" don't Google it if you are anywhere near work. It is probably the least work-safe thing in the history of the internet and it definitely involves people eating diarrhea. In fact, it is probably not even something that you want to google from your home computer because then you'll have to explain to your husband/wife/kids/friends why you had any reason to watch girls eating each other's poop. If you feel that you absolutely must see this video, my advice is to convince an unwitting and expendable friend to watch it with you on their computer. If none of your friends are willing/expendable, your best bet is to wait until next Halloween so that you can disguise yourself without needlessly drawing the attention of others and then use a public computer. Make sure to bring headphones and try to find a computer that is either obscured from view or very near to an exit. Consider yourself warned. I hereby release myself from any responsibility.) Anyway, my point is that I am not someone who is easily affected by lewd or repulsive events. I was actually getting pretty cocky about my immunity to depravity.
Until the dildo incident.
I was lying on my bed reading about how some asshole researcher trained a child to be scared of anything white and fluffy just to prove that kids can't discriminate between a white rat and a cloud and I was thinking "that poor fucking kid is a grown man now... and he's scared of clouds..." Just as I was running down the list of every other thing this poor child-who-is-now-a-man-who-is-scared-of-clouds might be afraid of (lint, sheep, pandas, possibly blankets) Ashley entered the room. Her naked body was only partially concealed by a towel and soon there was not even a towel anymore.
Here's one place where the story needs to be told a little better. Remember how I told you that I am not easily affected by things like people eating poop and dead penises? Well, you'd think that nakedness wouldn't bother me at all. And normally it doesn't. But Ashley wasn't just naked. She was naked. She was so naked that the nakedness almost seemed to radiate off of her. Damn it. "Radiate" is not the right word. "Shoot" maybe? Like, you know how porcupines can shoot their quills at you when they are alarmed? If naked was quills and Ashley was an alarmed porcupine, that would kind of be like what it was like. There was just something about Ashley that made it seem like she was constantly preparing to molest me.
Anyway, alarmed-porcupine-naked-molesty Ashley walked over to my bunk bed. We were staring eye to unflinching eye and she said:
"Oh. My. God. Allie, I just got this new vibrator called the 'Jolly Green Giant' and it is AMAZING! You have to try it!"
I guess maybe that's what I felt Ashley's nakedness was saying the whole time. Like her naked body was always yelling "Hey! You know what you need to do? You need to share my dildo with me. It'll be fun! Like a two-seat bicycle, but instead of a bicycle it's a rubber penis. C'mon ..."
Before I could collect my thoughts enough to disagree with the comparison between a two-seat bicycle and a rubber penis (alone: rubber penis > two-seat bicycle, shared: rubber penis <<<<< two-seat bicycle), Ashely grabbed the giant, veiny phallus that had so recently trespassed in her body and started waving it in my face. The tip wobbled back and forth like... well probably like a real penis would wobble if it was shaken violently from side to side.
There is no possible way to respond in a situation like that. I have thought about it, over and over and over and over and over, and I cannot think of a single thing I could have said that would have been the least bit appropriate, effective or relevant.
I just sat there, staring at Ashley and her dildo from the safety of my bunk bed, feeling dead inside.
The Jolly Green Giant became a prominent fixture in our room. It was kept in Ashley's shower bucket, poking out over the top in a very friendly way, as if to say "Hi! What can I do for you today?"
I hated that thing. It is not psychologically healthy to have your visual field constantly occupied by an object that rams your roommates vagina on a regular basis. Dildos should be kept secret. I told Ashley this on several occasions, but she just laughed as if I had suggested that we should adopt a monkey - what a ridiculous and charming idea!
You may not be surprised to learn that Ashley was into drugs. Mushrooms, pot, ecstasy, unidentified prescription drugs - she kept our room stocked with all of them. A quest to find a calculator would turn up a plastic baggy full of horse tranquilizers. I once found a mysterious red and yellow pill in one of my shoes.
Again, I feel compelled to interject. One of the problems with this story is that it cannot be told all at once. It is not sufficient to simply run down a laundry-list of events and say "Ashley abused horizontal surfaces, Ashley asked me to share her dildo and it made me feel weird, Ashley did lots of drugs and many of those drugs found their way onto me and my things and I was afraid to drink orange juice because maybe there was ketamine in there and I'd drink it and end up falling down three flights of stairs because I was reasonably convinced that the stairs were a giant bowl of noodles and I was butter and I needed to get in there or else Hitler would eat my face." I don't know. I've never done ketamine, but if Ashley is any indication, I have approximated the experience fairly well. My point is that it is not enough to tell you these things and all the things that follow, one at a time. For this story to be effective, you'd have to hear everything all at once because the individual parts do not do justice to the whole. Sadly, I am unable to bend the laws of space and time. I am sorry. Now let's talk about the time Ashley got me propositioned for sex.
One day Ashley came home with a box. She was really excited about it. She said "Allie, you are going to absolutely LOVE this!"
Was it a hamburger? A baby panda? One of those giant checks? An autographed picture of Brett Favre? Noodles?
It was none of those things.
It was a two-foot high pink electric neon sign that said "I HEART DICK." The last coil of the neon sign was bent into the shape of a circumcised penis.
Ashley put the sign in our window.
I feel that I should note that when you have a roommate, it is often difficult for outsiders to separate which objects in your room belong to which inhabitant. I was constantly forced to explain "No, that sign belongs to my roommate. I don't love dick. Shit, that's not what I mean. I mean, I like dick but not like THAT. No I'm not gay. If I was gay that would be fine with me, but I'm not. It's just... it's just that I don't feel the need to advertise my affection for dicks. I am comfortable appreciating dicks quietly."
I also had to explain this to the strangers that would show up at our room late at night when Ashley wasn't home:
Strange Man: "So you love dick, huh?"
Me: "What...? No! That's my roommate's sign."
Strange Man: "So you don't like dick?"
Me: "I like dick, I just - do I really have to explain this?"
Strange Man: "No, I get it. It's okay. Is your roommate home?"
Me: "No." (I wanted to say "YOU DON'T GET IT! AND IT'S NOT OKAY!" But my desire to be properly understood was outweighed by my desire to prevent this man from becoming Ashley's fuck-buddy because I really didn't relish the idea of him sleeping in my room a few times a week. He looked like a snorer and possibly also a rapist.)
Strange Man: "Do you know when she will be home?"
Me: "No. She took some acid and then went into the forest, so she may not come home ever. Also, are you aware that my roommate is afflicted with the Gonorrhea of the genitalia?"
Strange Man: "Well, do you want to hang out or something?"
Me: "Um... not really."
Strange Man: "I have some good girl on girl porn back in my room if you and your roommate ever want to stop by..."
Me: "That probably will not happen."
Strange Man: "Well, if you're ever bored."
Me: "Thanks. I'm going to shut the door now, okay?"
Strange Man: "Wait! What's your name?"
Me: "Mabel. Goodnight."
Strange Man (trying to sound seductive): "Good night, Mabel."
I ended up breaking the lamp. It was an accident. Kind of. It was more like I accidentally knocked it to the floor and chipped it and then thought, "eh, what the hell, I might as well put it out of its misery."
The Jolly Green Giant and the "I Heart Dick" sign were not even the beginning of it.
Living with Ashley was like living in the dumpster behind a conglomerate of a mental hospital, a McDonald's and an Arnold Schwarzenegger memorabilia store, only without the weekly emptying of trash.
I honestly do not know how to convey this in words. It is indescribable. I am going to try to describe it, but I assure you that my words will fail miserably.
Ashley's bed was at least five and-a-half feet tall. Underneath it was her desk, but you wouldn't know that because the entire area under her lofted bed was packed full of pizza boxes, Redbull cans, dirty clothing and the odd used condom.
The mess expanded and expanded until it threatened the safety of my side of the room, at which point, I would do my best to push it back whilst avoiding the used condoms. The tragedy of this was that even though 99 percent of Ashley's belongings were buried under a vast sea of garbage, the Jolly Green Giant was never obscured from view (unless it was inside Ashley, of course.)
I would often come home to find the room trashed. "Trashed" is a relative term. "Trashed" in this case means "floor completely obscured from view by shin-deep piles of partying refuse intermixed with anime-porn, empty cans of Redbull and a discarded cat-woman costume which is quickly being enveloped by a half-gallon of melted and rapidly coagulating ice cream. And Ashley's illegitimate nephew is asleep in my bed because she was supposed to babysit him but accidentally dropped acid and decided to go exploring in the forest instead."
Rotting garbage is a known source of noxious odors, but that is not why I was eventually forced to investigate Ashley's pile. I was forced to investigate Ashley's pile because she vanished for two days and left her fully-charged cell phone behind. I know that the cell phone was fully charged because it beeped loudly every fifteen seconds for almost a day and a half before I got desperate enough to dig through all of the trash and find it.
I eventually found the phone. It had fallen off of Ashley's bed into the thick of the pile. When I found it, I opened it and clicked "ignore" on a voicemail from "Master." But the phone was not the only thing I found. Underneath the mounds of dirty clothes and pizza boxes, I found not one, but three overflowing trash cans.
This was quite possibly the most disturbing moment of all of them. It haunts me to this day. It started out as a small nagging in the back of my mind and has slowly grown into a question so large that it threatens to usurp my soul. Why three trash cans?
It seems that when one trash can disappeared into the heaps of garbage, Ashley simply bought another one. But why buy another trash can? Doesn't that defeat the purpose of the trash can? Ashley would have had to drive to Wal-Mart, walk through the aisles until she found the trash cans, pick out another trash can, carry the trash can to the register, stand in line holding the trash can, pay $14.95 for the trash can, carry the trash can out to her car, drive herself and the trash can back to our dorm, fill the trash can up and then do the whole thing over again and I will go to my death bed wondering if she ever thought "what is the purpose of this?"
And this is where I am going to end this story. I could have told you about the time I left for Christmas break and came back to find that Ashley had inexplicably bought five bags of frozen corn and neglected to remove them from my mini-fridge before taking off for six weeks. I also could have told you about the many times when I was taking a shower and I heard the door creek open and soon a whirring sound began in the next stall over and I knew exactly what it was and one time Ashley even tried to talk to me about her crazy acid trip as if she did not have a giant, vibrating, rubber penis inside of her. I could have told you about the guys she brought home and their many sexual preferences and how, on several occasions, I awoke to the penetrating gaze of one of Ashley's suiters. Or about the time she almost certainly used my bed for one of her conquests. I could have expanded the details in all of those stories in the hope that they would lend credibility to my claim that living with Ashley was a very strange experience. But instead, I have decided to simulate the experience for you by recapping the story (to give the illusion of it all happening at once) with egregious exaggeration (to give you an idea of how it actually felt).
If I Had Chosen to Tell The Story The Way I Felt Like Telling it:
New roommate. Arnold Shwarzenegger is there too. And he's nine feet tall. And rabid. And he commands an army of troll dolls and headless barbies. And they are fighting to take control of all the horizontal space. Room is filling up with garbage. And pills. There are ten thousand pills. Now there are one million pills and the garbage starts flying around and it bites me on the face and every time I try to hide the pills from the RA's, I die. And then I go to jail. BUT I DON'T WANT TO TAKE KETAMINE!!!! I JUST WANT SOME FUCKING ORANGE JUICE! Dildo! Molesting! Raping! Porcupine quills! THEN THERE'S DRAGONS! AND I'M ON FIRE! Smell bad! DIRTY. Get it off! Boyfriend (who is not yet Boyfriend but I desperately want to be Boyfriend) wants to come over to my room. MY room? And I said YES?? But it's so messy! Quick! Clean it up. Can't clean it up. At least hide the dildo. I'm embarrassed. Want to make good impression. I'm sorry it's so messy in here. Don't judge me for this room! Don't look at that! I don't love dick! WAIT! THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT TO SAY! I would probably really like yours a lot. Please like me. Please.
Beeping! Where is it? Can't find. HAVE TO FIND. Found. Who is "Master"? THREE TRASH CANS??? But WHY???
That's closer to the way it actually felt.
P.S. That last little bit is totally Boyfriend's fault. I wrote it and then I wanted to take it out because it doesn't make any sense at all and actually makes me look kind of insane, but Boyfriend was like "No! Leave it in there! It's so funny!" And I was like "Are you trying to make my readers doubt my sanity?" And Boyfriend was like "They'll understand what you mean..." But what he really meant was "They already know that you are totally crazy." And I was like "Okay, but I'm taking out the part with the badger." And Boyfriend was like "Fine."
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