The first time Trina and I talked, things seemed bad. Okay, they didn't seem bad. They seemed awful. Terrible. Traumatic. Atrocious. I was looking up something on the Internet with my friend Louis when Trina imed me, and when she started going on about sororities and her nice Southern friends in Kappa Sig, I thought I might cry.
"Sororities are awesome," Louis typed. We had just watched Sorority Life. He had just finished his first year at Brown. Sororities. Ha. Then Trina wrote something about how she was going to miss Southern Comfort. "Like the alcohol?" I asked. "Or the kindness of people from below the Mason Dixon line?" She replied the former. (It turned out she had no idea what SoCo was, and after asking a friend, she was very, very afraid of the badass that was me. Again, Ha.)
For most of you, your freshman rooms probably suck(ed). I understand this. In 2002, tucked away in 407 McKool -- Tip of the Quad's Nip -- things sometimes sucked. Trina wasn't overjoyed when I took cut up FedEx boxes, hung them on the wall, attached pens and lamented that this was as close to graffiting up our bedroom as we were going to get. She had to deal with my random bouts of transitioning-depression that involved crying jags, cigarettes and never-ending marathons of My So-Called Life, and which lasted pretty much until sophomore year. I had to deal with her "I-was-a-sheltered-child-and-this-is-my-first-year-in-college," alcoholism.
Still.
407 McKool was unarguably the best place to be ever. Some night in early October one of us put on "Jack and Diane," and after that the dancing never stopped. When we were bored, we would take shots of vodka and then ... do nothing. There were breakups and abandoned jobs and once a blacked out Trina insisted that I needed to get Jose Cuervo on the telephone.
It was fucking awesome.
Trina and I weren't likely candidates for friendship. I want to be David Bowie when I grow up (when I don't want to be Rachel Green or Angela Chase or Carrie Bradshaw), and I don't know if Trina knows who Bowie is. (If you do, Trina, I apologize. ) One night, after I assuredly convinced someone that, in the hierarchy of frats, Phi Delt was near the bottom, Trina realized I had a problem and meticulously taught me the status-ranking of every frat on campus. On my part, I taught Trina the meaning of words like "hipster." I may have also taught her who David Bowie is. (Again, if I did, I'm sorry for the above accusation.)
Our relationship works because we both know the truth. Trina's a sorority girl by day, and I may look unJappily hip (occasionally), but really, we're both just nerds with mystique. (Fine. I'm obviously a nerd, but I like to think I wear my nerdiness like a Burberry scarf.)
Randomly assigned roommates are the best things ever.
I wanted to write about Sex and the City this week, because next Tuesday, February 22nd, marks the anniversary of the end, but Clare Stapleton wrote about the show last week. (Fuck you Clare. No. Really. Fuck you.) Still, I propose a moment of silence for SATC, and then one for 407 McKool.
This one's for you, Gords. (Hey Dafna!)
- Yona
