roommates

* WISDOM TROVE *

* NEWFULLDB 2.4M *

1:The Christian Roommates” is not one of Updike’s best stories. ~ Adam Begley,

2:I decided if I'm going to have roommates, I'd rather they be my family. ~ Bethany Baird,

3:I look at my roommates who are so proud of me that it makes me proud. ~ Adriana Trigiani,

4:I have two roommates, so it's a challenge to keep the house the way I like. ~ Evangeline Lilly,

5:It's hard to be roommates with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs. ~ J D Salinger,

6:Its really hard to be roommates with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs. ~ J D Salinger,

7:We are tutor and student. Roommates. Sparring partners. Friends. Anything you want us to be. ~ Anyta Sunday,

8:I don't think I could live with anybody. I had roommates, and it's not for me. I like my space! ~ Ashley Benson,

9:I'm a typical college girl; I love to shop and gossip with my roommates about boys and whatnot. ~ Alicia Sacramone,

10:I even lived on campus to get the college experience. I had five roommates and I still keep in touch with them while I'm on the road. ~ Tatyana Ali,

11:He hadn’t said a word to me until we had been roommates for eight months. And even then it had only been, “You’re wearing my socks. ~ Melody J Bremen,

12:[If homes belongs to couples or roommates]: I think homes should reflect the individuals and their individual taste rather than someone else's. ~ Julie London,

13:When I started Facebook from my dorm room in 2004, the idea that my roommates and I talked about all the time was a world that was more open. ~ Mark Zuckerberg,

14:I have the best roommates in the world! It creates a fun sense of family... and that's really important to me. Things can get so lonely without it. ~ Kristen Bell,

15:I'm surrounded by people who care about me and love me. I have a great job. I have wonderful roommates who take care of me. I have a family who adores me. ~ Evangeline Lilly,

16:I drove around in a Volkswagen Rabbit I shared with one of my roommates, and it didn't have a roof. It doesn't rain much in L.A., but when it did, it was utterly miserable. ~ Jon Hamm,

17:That kind of shit was mind-blowing for a person who once dated a dude with six actual roommates. I was like, “How much is your seventh of the rent, thirty-seven dollars?! ~ Samantha Irby,

18:Worried, I touched the jacket’s sleeve. “You think it’s too much?” I asked, working hard to keep my tone non-combative. I’d had this conversation with ex-roommates before. ~ Kim Harrison,

19:There are reports that President Obama and his family may move to New York City after his term is over. Unfortunately, the city is so expensive, he's looking for another ex-president to be roommates with. ~ Jimmy Fallon,

20:One of my roommates, Rafael, he's an expert on monsters. Not that he talks about them. I can just tell. People who have monsters recognize each other. They know each other without even saying a word. ~ Benjamin Alire S enz,

21:There was a succession of roommates, never chosen with her input and all with cognitive impairments. Some were quiet. One kept her up at night. She felt incarcerated, like she was in prison for being old. The ~ Atul Gawande,

22:I was always a fan but me and Kevin Pattero, he was a friend of mine who trained for the Olympic games in 1972 he and I became very close friends and roommates and I kind of rode his coattails into the business. ~ Ric Flair,

23:I've always believed that you often need less. You don't need to hear why people are friends, you don't need to hear why people are roommates, you don't need to hear why someone would help a friend to do something. ~ John Mulaney,

24:My roommates continue to lurk in the doorway.

I find a pair of clean boxers and tug them on. “I swear to God, if you tell me you’ve been watching me sleep for the last hour like a bunch of creepers, I’m calling the cops. ~ Elle Kennedy,

25:Dead fathers and exasperating roommates and questionable eulogies don’t feel so awful when the night sky is clear enough to literally feel the grandeur of the universe. I love it when the night sky makes me feel insignificant. ~ Colleen Hoover,

26:Right,” I muttered to myself, impaling the tiny positive-mental-attitude goblin who lived inside the deep, dark, super-black castle fortress of my soul. It was roommates with my silent love for The Sound of Music and cat memes. But ~ Shayne Silvers,

27:My roommates and I looked at each other and screamed, "BEANS!" in unison, like we hadn't eaten in weeks.We were holding hands, jumping up and down and celebrating, while the guy at the register tried to understand how we functioned on a normal basis. ~ Grace Helbig,

28:Ridge: Well, then, I guess that means we’re roommates.
Me: If we’re roommates, can you do me a favor?
Ridge: What’s that?
Me: If I ever start dating again, don’t be like Tori and sleep with my boyfriend, okay?
Ridge: I can’t make any promises ~ Colleen Hoover,

29:In the Broadway play In Defense of the Cave Man, a man says that when he was first married, he saw his wife cleaning the bathroom and asked her, “Are we moving?” In his bachelor days that was the only time he and his roommates bothered to clean the bathroom. ~ John M Gottman,

30:One of my roommates called it 'agape.' I'd never heard the word before, but it was her favorite word, and I was instantly enamored because the definition of agape is loving a person for exactly who they are—not who we hope they'll become with enough fixing. ~ Hannah Brencher,

31:Anyone who has ever tried to share pizza with roommates knows that Communism cannot ever work. If Lenin and Marx had just shared an apartment, perhaps a hundred million lives might have been spared and put to productive use making sneakers and office furniture. ~ Daniel Suarez,

32:Yes, 'Black Girl/White Girl' might be described as a 'coming-of-age' novel, at least for the survivor Genna. It is also intended as a comment on race relations in America more generally: we are 'roommates' with one another, but how well do we know one another? ~ Joyce Carol Oates,

33:Michelle’s Note: When I make these at my rented house just off the Macalester campus, I put the rolls in a box and write “FROZEN KIDNEYS FOR HANNAH’S CAT” on the box. So far, none of my roommates, every one of them a cookie hound, has ever opened the box to see what’s inside. ~ Joanne Fluke,

34:Honestly, I’d prefer to live with gay guys. They’re the cleanest, and they just take care of stuff. Because I’m always away, coming home to a clean house means a lot to me. Trust me, I’ve lived with a lot of roommates, and straight guys are just kids who don’t pick up after themselves. ~ Kellan Lutz,

35:But something between us had shifted over the course of our marriage, particularly the last two to three years. We had gone from being lovers to best friends to . . . roommates who routinely irritated each other. If I was honest with myself, that was what it felt like most of the time. ~ Camille Pag n,

36:The two of them, father and son, lived like roommates, stumbling upon each other in their matching peacock robes, bitching over who used up the coffee, but by afternoon they drifted in the pool together, bumping the sides, compatriots in the search for a little passion on earth. They ~ Jeffrey Eugenides,

37:There was something unquestioning about her roommates’ lives, an assumption of certainty that fascinated her, so that they often said, “Let’s go get some,” about whatever it was they needed—more beer, pizza, buffalo wings, liquor—as though this getting was not an act that required money. ~ Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie,

38:One of Katie’s first roommates, a stringy-haired girl from New Hampshire who claimed to be descended from a real Salem witch, had the habit of humming relentlessly as she read her Latin textbook, biting the side of her thumbnail with such diligence that Katie had thought it might be grounds for murder. ~ Simone St James,

39:I actually knew Sully's sister, and I was in a band called Stripmind, and then I became roommates with Sully and being out of a band, he asked if I wanted to join in his. Tony was originally the second guitarist in the band; a guy by the name of Lee Richards was the first. The rest is pretty much history. ~ Robbie Merrill,

40:The night following the reading, Gansey woke to a completely unfamiliar sound and fumbled for his glasses. It sounded a little like one of his roommates was being killed by a possum, or possibly the final moments of a fatal cat fight. He wasn’t certain of the specifics, but he was sure death was involved. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

41:We're very aggressive speakers. I remember when I was with one of my roommates in New York - and she's Portuguese, too - and we were in an Apple store talking about a computer in Portuguese. Some guy comes up to us and goes, "Hey, hey! Peace, peace! Stop arguing." It's not arguing. This is really just how we talk. ~ Daniela Ruah,

42:The thing is, it's really hard to be roommates with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs - if yours are really good ones and theirs aren't. You think if they're intelligent and all, the other person, and have a good sense of humor, that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are better, but they do. ~ J D Salinger,

43:Last year I picked up the New York Times and there was a story about a kid from Dartmouth who was bragging that he never left his room, and made dates and ordered pizza with his computer. The piece de resistance of this story was that he had two roommates, and he was proud of the fact that he only talked to them by computer. ~ Studs Terkel,

44:You live with Soren?” the first one asked.
“We’re roommates,” I answered slowly.
“You do anything else with Soren?” he continued.
That was when Soren went into action, shoving the three brothers back like he was trying to create a perimeter.
I decided to play along though. “I do plenty of other things with Soren. ~ Nicole Williams,

45:I have a Ph.D. in philosophy and sports science. At 14, I went through this really tough Soviet training system. A lot of my roommates got psychologically broken or physically injured. Either you came through, or you were out. I made my Ph.D. work in the field of young athletes aged 14-19 because at this age any human is changing. ~ Wladimir Klitschko,

46:The thing is, it's really hard to be roommates with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs--if yours are really good ones and theirs aren't. You think if they're intelligent and all, the other person, and have a good sense of humor, that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are better, but they do. They really do. ~ J D Salinger,

47:I have always felt comedy and tragedy are roommates. If you look up comedy and tragedy, you will find a very old picture of two masks. One mask is tragedy. It looks like its crying. The other mask is comedy. It looks like its laughing. Nowadays, we would say, How tasteless and insensitive. A comedy mask is laughing at a tragedy mask. ~ Gilbert Gottfried,

48:Lester and I have gotten to know each other and are slowly getting used to living together. We’ve had all the conversations new roommates typically have, like Don’t leave your feathers in the sink, No regurgitating at the table, and The floor is not a toilet (he’s not the first roommate I’ve had these conversations with, but that’s a long story). ~ Chris Colfer,

49:From what my friends tell me, apparently some guys can be pretty intimidated by me when they find out what I do. I find it funny because I try to be modest and I don't like to talk about gymnastics unless I am asked about it. But my roommates always take on my bragging rights and tell my life story to the guys we meet, which leaves me blushing. ~ Alicia Sacramone,

50:So those are your roommates, eh? What're the odds of having three gay-or-at-least-bi guys in one house, do you think?"

"Who knows. Just too bad I couldn't have used those odds to win the lottery instead."

"You did win the lottery. The gay roommate lottery."

Rob turned his attention to his cereal. "I don't consider it a win unless I'm getting laid out of it. ~ Heidi Belleau,

51:I don’t suppose you’re going to be able to—” She looked around for lurking roommates and leaned in a little closer. “Fuck with that? Especially if it’s broken.”
Ryder smiled. “I can fuck with all but a broken dick and even then, I’d give it a red hot try.” He lunged, grabbing her arm and she squealed playfully as he dragged her towards him. “Come and sit in my lap and I’ll show you. ~ Amy Andrews,

52:Yossarian’s attitude towards his roommates turned merciful and protective at the mere recollection of Captain Black. It was not their fault that they were young and cheerful, he reminded himself as he carried the swinging beam of his flashlight back through the darkness. He wished that he could be young and cheerful, too. And it wasn’t their fault that they were courageous, confident and carefree. ~ Joseph Heller,

53:Today we’ve become far more accepting of alternative lifestyles, and people move in and out of different situations: single with roommates, single and solo, single with partner, married, divorced, divorced and living with an iguana, remarried with iguana, then divorced with seven iguanas because your iguana obsession ruined your relationship, and, finally, single with six iguanas (Arturo was sadly run over by an ice cream truck). ~ Aziz Ansari,

54:Owing to the math, many of us would never get the chance to marry. But neither would we be welcome to stay on. Five years from now, quite a few of my bunkhouse roommates would be gone from Paradise. Some would run away, but many would be kicked out. Nobody spoke of this practice, of course. There were many, many idiosyncrasies at Paradise that were not to be mentioned aloud, but the throwing away of half our young men was the ugliest one. ~ Sarina Bowen,

55:Today is the first day in the next chapter of my life. My best friend, Ivy, and I are leaving home to finish college. We will be roommates and have the time of our lives. She has been staying at our house since November of our senior year in high school. My parents agreed to help us both with college if we would take two years of basic courses at the local junior college. Now we are moving to Springfield, Missouri to attend Missouri State University. ~ Hilary Storm,

56:You have to stop depending on your roommates. I want you to speak to the Swarthmore administration, the health center, and school security. If they know what’s going on and how to deal with it, you can go anywhere by yourself. So promise me you’ll speak to those people.” The thought terrified me, but I agreed. “You also need a doctor at the health center, and I want you to see a school psychologist, to help you handle the emotional challenges that come along with epilepsy. ~ Kurt Eichenwald,

57:She told her therapist it reminded her of coming home the summer after her freshman year at Rutgers, stepping back into the warm bath of family and friends, loving it for a week or two, and then feeling trapped, dying to return to school, missing her roommates and her cute new boyfriend, the classes and the parties and the giggly talks before bed, understanding for the first time that that was her real life now, that this, despite everything she'd ever loved about it, was finished for good. ~ Tom Perrotta,

58:Subject: This is a work environment and this is harassment

Mr. Zaccadelli,

I am writing to inform you that your proposition has been rejected. Due to both the fact that we are coworkers, as well as roommates, I would find it inappropriate to “visit the stacks” with you. I will reject all further offers at this time. If, in the future, I decide to entertain such an offer, I will inform you via correspondence.

Respectfully (not) yours,

Miss Taylor Caldwell

P.S. Stop fucking emailing me. ~ Chelsea M Cameron,

59:I invited Abby to come here for dinner tonight. I want to talk to her about things. I’m going to try to convince her we should be roommates.” “Roommates? How romantic,” Mel said. “Yeah, well, she doesn’t have romantic feelings, but I want to take better care of my family. Whether she likes it or not, she’s my family. At least, she’s giving birth to my family. In another month, she’s going to realize how much she needs me nearby. After they’re born…” He shook his head. “After they’re born, she’s going to need me even more.” “So. ~ Robyn Carr,

60:Yossarian's attitude toward his roommates turned merciful and protective at the mere recollection of Captain Black. It was not their fault that they were young and cheerful, he reminded himself as he carried the swinging beam of his flashlight back through the darkness. He wished that he could be young and cheerful, too. And it wasn't their fault that they were courageous, confident and carefree. He would just have to be patient with them until one or two were killed and the rest wounded, and then they would all turn out okay. ~ Joseph Heller,

61:The first role as "Fashion Show Guy" should not be on my IMDb anymore. That's the sort of thing you put on your IMDb when you have no credits and you really just want to have a line on your résumé. I had just gotten to New York and there was a massive open call for extras for Sex and the City. One of my college roommates' buddies - there was some connection - she worked in the office and saw my name in the massive stack of randoms just trying to be on the show, which was a big hit. She's like, "I know this dude. Let's throw him in there." ~ Teddy Sears,

62:Honestly, Eppie, no one had ever cared this much about being close to me. I sorta don't know what to do with it," he admitted. "And though I'm completely flattered that you are envious of the physical closeness these roommates and bugs share with me, you've forgotten one thing."
"What's that?"
His words were doors, each one of them opening up another part of him, inviting me in.
"That your heart already lives here." He picked up my hand and pressed my palm flatly against his chest, directly over his heart. "And you can't get any closer than that. ~ Megan Squires,

63:After weeks of only sleeping an hour or two at a time, I responded to your screaming on autopilot. I’d hear your cries even when I was sleeping. But it was grueling, how much a baby needed, how you would tug my hair and grab my shirt and latch onto my body because you owned, it, too. Look how he wants his mama, my roommates would say, and a couple of them also got goo-goo-eyed, and a sliver of fear would present itself: what if I would always be required to offer myself up, ready and willing, constantly available? What had I done? And then: what was wrong with me? ~ Lisa Ko,

64:Why are you always so mad?”

She laughs under her breath. “That’s easy,” she says. “Assholes, stupid customers, a shitty job, worthless parents, crappy friends, bad weather, annoying roommates who don’t know how to kiss.”

I laugh at the last comment, which I’m sure was supposed to be a dig, but it felt more like an underhanded flirt.

“How are you so happy all the time?” she asks. “You think everything is funny.”

“That’s easy,” I say. “Great parents, being lucky enough to have a job, loyal friends, sunny days, and roommates who starred in porn films. ~ Colleen Hoover,

65:that her best friend, Gabe Poirier, is a bad idea. He’s a walking, talking cliché. The Adonis quarterback with the bulging biceps and harem of fangirls trailing behind him on campus like a stench you can’t get rid of. Sadly, that’s also the reason she can’t stay away from him. Well, that and the fact that they’re roommates. Jolie is already straddling the line between friendship and more when Sage comes to her with an offer she cannot refuse: be his fake girlfriend and live for free for the rest of the semester. She tells herself that she can handle it. He’s just the boy she saved ten years ~ L J Shen,

66:Babies are the worst roommates. They’re unemployed. They don’t pay rent. They keep insane hours. Their hygiene is horrible. If you had a roommate that did any of the things babies do, you’d ask them to move out. “Do you remember what happened last night? Today you’re all smiles, but last night you were hitting the bottle really hard. Then you started screaming, and you threw up on me. Then you passed out and wet yourself. I went into the other room to get you some dry clothes, I came back, and you were all over my wife’s breasts! Right in front of me, her husband! Dude, you gotta move out. ~ Jim Gaffigan,

67:I have this recurring nightmare in which I have to move back in with my old college roommates. I'll admit, that's what I was expecting to find at Oneida. The 19th century equivalent of sharing a house with the friend who brought home a crazy drifter to sleep on our couch - a man who claimed the local car dealership was built out of 'needles nourishing the earth'. The week before I went to Oneida, I had that claustrophobic dream again - that I had to move back in with the girl who claimed to enjoy baking and always promised tomorrow was going to be 'Muffin Day!' even though tomorrow was never Muffin Day. It was Muffin Day maybe once. ~ Sarah Vowell,

68:I’ve been so eager to make my time at Liberty tolerable that I’ve been sweeping all kinds of dirt under the rug. Homophobia? Nah, they’re just a little behind the times. Using religion to justify violence? Nope, not since the Crusades. But tonight, sitting there at my desk as my roommates reenacted The Laramie Project, I realized how naïve I was. My aunt Tina was right: this stuff does exist, and it does hurt people, and although there are lots of people at Liberty who condemn violence against gays—including Dr. Falwell himself—the number of students who want to give them the Goliath treatment isn’t zero. In fact, the number who live in my room isn’t zero. ~ Kevin Roose,

69:Cathy, one of my roommates, would surface in the news many years later, describing with embarrassment something I hadn’t known when we lived together: Her mother, a schoolteacher from New Orleans, had been so appalled that her daughter had been assigned a black roommate that she’d badgered the university to separate us. Her mother also gave an interview, confirming the story and providing more context. Having been raised in a home where the n-word was a part of the family lexicon, having had a grandfather who’d been a sheriff and used to brag about chasing black people out of his town, she’d been “horrified,” as she put it, by my proximity to her daughter. ~ Michelle Obama,

70:Ditto for the stereotype about men monopolizing conversations. Like Sasha, many of my dates—even the more passive ones—did most of the talking. I listened to them talk literally for hours about the most minute, mind-numbing details of their personal lives; men they were still in love with, men they had divorced, roommates and coworkers they hated, childhoods they were loath to remember, yet somehow found the energy to recount ad nauseam. Listening to them was like undergoing a slow frontal lobotomy. I sat there stunned by the social ineptitude of people to whom it never seemed to occur that no one, much less a first date, would have any interest in enduring this ordeal. ~ Norah Vincent,

71:She hugged me tight, and I hugged her back. I was going to miss her—I knew it. But somehow, I had the feeling that we were going to be okay. I didn’t know what would happen with us. Maybe we’d find a way to attend the same college and be roommates and have the most amazingly decorated dorm room ever. Maybe we’d end up being pen pals, sending lists back and forth. Or we’d just stick to talking twice a week, or we’d video chat, or else just spend all our money traveling to hang out with each other on weekends. I somehow knew that the particulars didn’t matter. She was my heart, she was half of me, and nothing, certainly not a few measly hundred miles, was ever going to change that. ~ Morgan Matson,

72:Marriages suffer from this same cycle. You start dating someone with wonder and anticipation, drunk on love. You romanticize everything about your partner, and even mundane activities like going to the grocery store together can seem like a fantastic date. But then you fall into a routine, and years later, you’ve become roommates, circling the same safe topics while packing lunches, the monotony broken only by occasional date nights. Deep down, you know why these parts of your life have gone stale. It’s because nothing new is happening. You may say you fear change, but the lack of change in your life is why you feel so blah. Monotony will drive any human relationship or endeavor into a ditch. ~ Mel Robbins,

73:like my privacy; I want my privacy. I want Kyle gone. I want my bed and to be in it by myself. “Kyle is sleeping peacefully. There’s no reason for me to stay. Are you sure you don’t want me to leave?” “Only if you want to; there’s no rush.” “Where are your roommates?” “No idea. Probably with Jameson.” Mental groan. “Who’s Jameson?” “The nerdy girl my roommate is dating.” Then I hear myself add, “If you don’t want water I can make you some hot chocolate or something. It’s motherfucking cold out.” Shut up Zeke. For fuck’s sake, shut up. Violet smiles shyly, tripping up on her speech. “S-Sure, I can do a quick hot cocoa. That sounds toasty and delicious.” Toasty. I have a girl in my house that says shit like sounds toasty. ~ Sara Ney,

74:Ditto for the stereotype about men monopolizing conversations. Like Sasha, many of my dates—even the more passive ones—did most of the talking. I listened to them talk literally for hours about the most minute, mind-numbing details of their personal lives; men they were still in love with, men they had divorced, roommates and coworkers they hated, childhoods they were loath to remember, yet somehow found the energy to recount ad nauseam. Listening to them was like undergoing a slow frontal lobotomy. I sat there stunned by the social ineptitude of people to whom it never seemed to occur that no one, much less a first date, would have any interest in enduring this ordeal. This was a human, not a male or female, failing. ~ Norah Vincent,

75:Poor black families were “immersed in a domestic web of a large number of kin and friends whom they [could] count on,” wrote the anthropologist Carol Stack in All Our Kin. Those entwined in such a web swapped goods and services on a daily basis. This did little to lift families out of poverty, but it was enough to keep them afloat. But large-scale social transformations—the crack epidemic, the rise of the black middle class, and the prison boom among them—had frayed the family safety net in poor communities. So had state policies like Aid to Families with Dependent Children that sought to limit “kin dependence” by giving mothers who lived alone or with unrelated roommates a larger stipend than those who lived with relatives. ~ Matthew Desmond,

76:We need to give children ways to help themselves feel good,” she tells me. “Parents can start with simple messages throughout the morning that children can repeat—messages such as: It’s so easy to get dressed. I love getting dressed. Breakfast is always a fun time. We’re all so glad to see each other. We love eating breakfast together. Breakfast makes my body feel good. “Parents can even go around the table and have each family member share one thing they love about themselves. Or they can put affirmations in a bowl and choose one for the whole family to focus on during the day. This can become a morning ritual for couples, families, roommates, and so on. Each person can even decide on one experience they’d like to have that day and create an affirmation for ~ Louise L Hay,

77:She'd become an English major for the purest and dullest of reasons: because she liked to read. The university’s “British and American Literature Course Catalog” was, for Madeleine, what its Bergdorf equivalent was for her roommates. A course listing like “English 274: Lily’s Euphues” excited Madeleine the way a pair of Fiorucci cowboy boots did Abby. “English 450A: Hawthorne and James” filled Madeleine with an expectation of sinful hours in bed not unlike what Olivia got from wearing a Lycra skirt and leather blazer in Danceteria. Even as a girl in their house in Prettrybrook, Madeleine wandered into the library, with its shelves of books rising higher than she could reach … and the magisterial presence of all those potentially readable words stopped her in her tracks. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides,

78:Memory in these incomparable streets, in mosaics of pain and sweetness, was clear to me now, a unity at last. I remembered small and unimportant things from the past: the whispers of roommates during thunderstorms, the smell of brass polish on my fingertips, the first swim at Folly Beach in April, lightning over the Atlantic, shelling oysters at Bowen's Island during a rare Carolina snowstorm, pigeons strutting across the graveyard at St. Philip's, lawyers moving out of their offices to lunch on Broad Street, the darkness of reveille on cold winter mornings, regattas, the flash of bagpipers' tartans passing in review, blue herons on the marshes, the pressure of the chinstrap on my shako, brotherhood, shad roe at Henry's, camellias floating above water in a porcelain bowl, the scowl of Mark Santoro, and brotherhood again. ~ Pat Conroy,

79:This time, she came back to Longwood House in a wheelchair and needed help with virtually all of her everyday activities—using the toilet, bathing, dressing. Alice was left with no choice but to move into the skilled nursing unit. The hope, they told her, was that, with physical therapy, she’d learn to walk again and return to her apartment. But she never did. From then on, she was confined to a wheelchair and the rigidity of nursing home life. All privacy and control were gone. She was put in hospital clothes most of the time. She woke when they told her, bathed and dressed when they told her, ate when they told her. She lived with whomever they said she had to. There was a succession of roommates, never chosen with her input and all with cognitive impairments. Some were quiet. One kept her up at night. She felt incarcerated, like she was in prison for being old. ~ Atul Gawande,

80:I’m sorry you got dragged into this.” He waved a hand to indicate he meant the house, the entire situation. “Having to stay here, with me, when you should be home with your family.” A pang of homesickness hit her as she thought of her parents and how disappointed they’d been that her leave had been “cancelled”. That wasn’t his fault though.
To ease his concern, she put on a smile. “Yeah, but hey, I could’ve done way worse in terms of roommates.” She gave his leg a playful nudge with her hand.
His eyes warmed at her words and touch. The firelight brought out the deep bronze undertones in his hair, flickering in tones of gold and orange. She wanted to run her fingers through it to find out if it was as soft as it looked.
He shook his head slightly at her, looking amused. “Why’d you have to be so sweet?”
She shrugged and countered, “Why’d you have to be so damned good looking? ~ Kaylea Cross,

81:By the time I walked down the aisle—or rather, into a judge’s chambers—I had lived fourteen independent years, early adult years that my mother had spent married. I had made friends and fallen out with friends, had moved in and out of apartments, had been hired, fired, promoted, and quit. I had had roommates I liked and roommates I didn’t like and I had lived on my own; I’d been on several forms of birth control and navigated a few serious medical questions; I’d paid my own bills and failed to pay my own bills; I’d fallen in love and fallen out of love and spent five consecutive years with nary a fling. I’d learned my way around new neighborhoods, felt scared and felt completely at home; I’d been heartbroken, afraid, jubilant, and bored. I was a grown-up: a reasonably complicated person. I’d become that person not in the company of any one man, but alongside my friends, my family, my city, my work, and, simply, by myself. I was not alone. ~ Rebecca Traister,

82:She also felt like there was something slightly more insidious going on, about how you were now supposed to feel like your work was your everything: where you got your paycheck, yes, but also where you got fed and where you found your social circle. Everything had started bleeding into everything else. These kids—she felt no compunction about calling them kids—expected that their workplaces would provide all this for them, as if work were an extension of college, with its own clubs and student organizations. Even more disconcerting was that many TakeOff employees lived together or had roommates who were in some way connected to other TakeOff employees, and now there were even apartment buildings that were actual dorms for grown-ups, where you lived in a suite with a few other people and had common areas and nightly activities. It was almost like a return to the days of Henry Ford, when a company provided you with housing and meals and social events. What had happened to having to figure out life on your own? ~ Doree Shafrir,

83:The thing with Melissa is that I fully and completely and 100 percent understand and comprehend what she is saying -- to its fullest meaning -- within the first fifteen seconds. And unfailingly by the end of the third sentence. I'm not saying I'm that smart. I'm saying I get her that well. We Two Are One. But her purpose is not to merely convey to me the story or the information until I have comprehended. Her purpose is to take a long luxurious bath in my ear and to disgorge the entire unedited contents of her brain -- with sidebars, cul-de-sacs, dead ends, and repetitions -- so that she can examine those contents. She is processing. She long ago abandoned those one-line phone messages and three-sentence notes when we were roommates. When she senses, somehow, that she is running out of time or your patience, she'll say, 'okay, a long story short' -- and then continue on her winding circuitous, often amusing way for another several detailed chapters. And I understand every single word of it, every stop for gas, every detour. I think what she thinks. ~ Gabrielle Hamilton,

84:Julie Seagle stared straight ahead and promised herself one thing: She would never again rent an apartment via Craigslist. The strap of her overstuffed suitcase dug into her shoulder, and she let it drop onto the two suitcases that sat on the sidewalk. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere to carry them now. Julie squinted in disbelief at the flashing neon sign that touted the best burritos in Boston. Rereading the printout of the email again did nothing to change things. Yup, this was the correct address. While she did love a good burrito, and the small restaurant had a certain charm about it, it seemed pretty clear that the one-story building did not include a three-bedroom apartment that could house college students. She sighed and pulled her cell phone from her purse. “Hi, Mom.” “Honey! I gather you made it to Boston? Ohio is missing you already. I can’t believe you’re already off at college. How is the apartment? Have you met your roommates yet?” Julie cleared her throat and looked at the flat roof of the restaurant. “The apartment is…‌airy. It has a very ~ Jessica Park,

85:I’ll sleep with you, though. On my terms.” “I don’t like to share,” he says. “Neither do I.” “I won’t share,” he clarifies. “Neither will I.” He smiles. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” I shake my head. “Probably not.” “I have a feeling we could be really good together.” “You always keep your promises, right?” He nods. “I try to.” “Promise me that you won’t break my heart.” He heaves a sigh. “Friday,” he says. “Paul,” I say, mocking his tone. “You’d have to hand me your heart before I could break it.” I nod. That’s true. “Okay.” “But if you ever do trust me enough to give it to me, I promise not to harm it. Is that what you want to hear?” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know why this is an issue when you just plan to use me for sex.” He chuckles then raises a hand. “I volunteer as tribute!” he cries quietly. I laugh. The bad thing is that if anyone could get me to hand my heart over, it’s him. Because I’ve had him in my head for so long that I don’t even know where to compartmentalize him anymore. “Want to be my girlfriend?” he teases. I shake my head. “Let’s just start with roommates.” He nods. “I’ll take whatever you’ll give me. ~ Tammy Falkner,

86:I was nineteen at the time, and like any other besotted teenage girl, I was desperately eager to please the object of my affections. I didn’t argue the point, but set to work producing the desired loaf.
The result was barely chewable when it emerged hot from the oven. By the time it cooled, it seemed significantly more resistant to fire, flood, or earthquakes than my dormitory’s concrete walls. After a brief discussion, Gabriel and I both decided that this rye-brick was more appropriate food for crows than for humans. I carried the slab to the balcony of my eighth-floor dormitory apartment, expecting that a fall from that height would smash it to crumbs.
I peered over the edge to make sure no one was below me; I didn’t want to drop the hardened mass onto someone’s head and make a murderess of myself. After verifying that the concrete walkway below was clear, I dropped the rye-brick over the side of the balcony. Down, down, it plummeted—past the seventh floor, the sixth, the fifth … Nearly a hundred feet below, and traveling somewhere around eighty feet per second, the rye-brick finally hit the ground—and didn’t break.
Despite an eight-story drop onto concrete, the rye-brick maintained its integrity. One of my roommates inspected the situation and expressed surprise that the stones of the walkway itself remained unscathed.
I didn’t try making any wheat-free loaves for a while after that. ~ Sarah A Chrisman,

87:Unfortunately, I knew exactly what I was suffering from. LIPID (Last Idiot Person I Dated) syndrome: a largely undiagnosed but pervasive disease that afflicts single women. My roommates and I had come up with the term in college, to explain the baffling phenomenon of nostalgia for one’s most recent ex. No matter how absolutely awful that person had been at the time, after a few weeks, the relationship would take on a rosy tint, and wistful little phrases would begin to creep into conversation, like, “I know he cheated on me with three people at the same time, but he was such a fabulous dancer,” or “All right, so he was a raging alcoholic, but when he was sober he did such sweet things! Remember those flowers he bought for me that one time?” Inexplicable, but inevitable. A few weeks of singledom render even the most inexcusable ex charming in retrospect. Hence, LIPID syndrome. As everyone knows, lipids are fats, and fats are bad for you, and therefore ex-boyfriends must be avoided at all costs. This is what comes of having a bio major as a roommate for four years. The one sure way to fight off LIPID syndrome was to distract oneself. True, the only foolproof cure is a new relationship, thus knocking the LIPID back down the dating chain into harmless obscurity, but there are other, temporary diversions. Reading a novel, watching a movie, or delving into the private lives of historical characters. With an anticipatory ~ Lauren Willig,

88:So what now?" he said.
"What do you mean?"
"What do we do now? We can't just be roommates."
"You said you didn't like me."
"I don't like you. I don't like how your hair smells, and how I can't stop thinking about waking up and seeing your face. I hate how my bed felt empty when you left. I don't like how good you were with my family, especially Harper, and how I wanted to see you with then again, but not just as a guest. As a member. You're right. I don't like you at all."
"When did you change your mind?"
"My mind never changed. I've wanted you since the moment you opened the door and had that stunned look on your face. It just took me a while to admit it. Why deny it now? It is what it is and it's not going to change."
"Oh."
"This doesn't mean I'm going to be nice. I'm still going to be an ass. I'll just be an ass who apologizes and brings you flowers to say he's been a dick."
"Chocolate," I said.
"What?"
"I'd rather have chocolate when you apologize."
"Chocolate it is." He smiled. "So does that mean what I think it means?"
"No. It just means that you get to bring me chocolate when you've been an ass. I'm going to weigh three hundred pounds." I focused my attention back on the peppers. I couldn't think about Hunter's declaration of... whatever it was.
Footsteps didn't make me look up.
"Taylor, look at me. Please." Damn. If only he didn't say please. "I can't promise to not make you mad. I can't promise that I won't hurt you. All I can promise is that I want you in my life, and I'll do anything to keep you there. ~ Chelsea M Cameron,

89:Wait in the car." He opened the door and started to climb out.
"Hold on! How long should I give you? What if you don't come back in a certain number of minutes? Should I call the cops?"
"Don't do anything. Don't call anyone. I'll be fine."
"But what if you're not?"
"Then go home."
And with that, he got out and jogged down the street, like if I heard screams or gunshots or whatever I would just drive on home like nothing happened. Well, good for you, I thought, watching him climb a short cement staircase and put a key in the door. You don't need anyone. Fine.
I watched the clock. Three minutes went by, four. I thought about knocking on the door, having of course no idea what I would actually do once I got there. Maybe I'd have to break the door down, wrestle Cameron away from the bad men, and then carry him out the way you hear people when they get a huge burst of adrenaline. Except the person I pictured rescuing was little Cameron, in shorts and a striped T-shirt, his arms wrapped around my neck.
Then there he was, bursting out of the apartment door and bounding down the steps, a big garbage bag in hand. He ran to the car, fast. I reached over and opened the passenger door and he jumped in.
"Go."
You can't exactly peel out in a '94 Escort, but I did my best. Cameron breathed hard, clutching the garbage bag to his chest.
"What happened?" I drove a good fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit, convinced we were being chased by angry roommates with guns.
"Nothing. You can slow down."
I didn't. "Nothing? Nothing happened?"
"They weren't even there."
Then I did slow down. "No one was there? At all?"
"Right." His breathing had returned to almost normal.
"Then what's the deal with freaking me out like that?" My voice came out high and hysterical and I realized how nervous I'd been, imagining some dangerous scenario from which Cameron had barely escaped, an echo of that day at his house.
"I don't know. I started to picture one of them pulling up and finding me there and...I panicked. ~ Sara Zarr,

90:As I brush my teeth, I scroll through my phone to see if Sabrina texted when my phone was on silent last night.

She didn’t. Damn. I was hoping my speech—and that amazing fucking kiss—might’ve changed her mind about going out with me, but I guess it didn’t.

I do, however, find the most mind-boggling conversation in the group chat I have with my roommates. All the messages are from last night, and they’re bizarre as fuck.

Garrett: The hells, D?!

Dean: It’s not what you think!!

Logan: It’s hard to mistake ur romantic bath with that giant pink thing! In ur ass!

Dean: It wasn’t in my ass!

Garrett: I’m not even going to ask where it was

Dean: I had a girl over!

Garrett: Suuuuuuuuure

Logan: Suuuuuuuuure

Dean: I hate you guys

Garrett: <3

Logan: <3

I rinse my mouth out, spit, and drop the toothbrush into the little cup on the sink. Then I quickly type out a text.

Me: Wait… what did I miss?

Since we have practice in twenty minutes, the guys are already awake and clearly on their phones. Two photos pop up simultaneously. Garrett and Logan have both sent me pics of pink dildos. I’m even more confused now.

Dean messages immediately with, Why do you guys have dildo pics handy?

Logan: ALINIMB

Dean: ??

Me: ??

Garrett: At Least It’s Not In My Butt.

I snort to myself, because I’m starting to piece it together.

Logan: Nice, G! U got that on the first try!

Garrett: We spend too much time 2gether.

Me: PLEASE tell me u caught D playing w/ dildos.

Logan: Sure did.

Dean is quick to object again.

I HAD A GIRL OVER!

The guys and I rag on him for a couple more minutes, but I have to stop when Fitzy stumbles into the bathroom and shoves me aside. He’s got crazy bedhead and he’s buck-naked.

“Gotta piss,” he mumbles.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” I say cheerfully. “Want me to make you some coffee?”

“God. Yes. Please.”

Chuckling, I duck out of the bathroom and walk the four or so steps into his kitchenette. When he finally emerges, I shove a cup of coffee in his hand, sip my own, and say, “Dean shoved a dildo up his ass last night.”

Fitzy nods. “Makes sense.”

I snicker mid-sip. Coffee spills over the rim of my cup. “It really does, huh? ~ Elle Kennedy,

91:The night following the reading, Gansey woke up to a completely unfamiliar sound and fumbled for his glasses. It sounded a little like one of his roommates was being killed by a possum, or possibly the final moments of a fatal cat fight. He wasn’t certain of the specifics, but he was sure death was involved.
Noah stood in the doorway to his room, his face pathetic and long-suffering. “Make it stop,” he said.
Ronan’s room was sacred, and yet here Gansey was, twice in the same weak, pushing the door open. He found the lamp on and Ronan hunched on the bed, wearing only boxers. Six months before, Ronan had gotten the intricate black tattoo that covered most of his back and snaked up his neck, and now the monochromatic lines of it were stark in the claustrophobic lamplight, more real than anything else in the room. It was a peculiar tattoo, both vicious and lovely, and every time Gansey saw it, he saw something different in the pattern. Tonight, nestled in an inked glen of wicked, beautiful flowers, was a beak where before he’d seen a scythe.
The ragged sound cut through the apartment again.
“What fresh hell is this?” Gansey asked pleasantly. Ronan was wearing headphones as usual, so Gansey stretched forward far enough to tug them down around his neck. Music wailed faintly into the air.
Ronan lifted his head. As he did, the wicked flowers on his back shifted and hid behind his sharp shoulder blades. In his lap was the half-formed raven, its head tilted back, beak agape.
“I thought we were clear on what a closed door meant,” Ronan said. He held a pair of tweezers in one hand.
“I thought we were clear that night was for sleeping.”
Ronan shrugged. “Perhaps for you.”
“Not tonight. Your pterodactyl woke me. Why is it making that sound?”
In response, Ronan dipped the tweezers into a plastic baggy on the blanket in front of him. Gansey wasn’t certain he wanted to know what the gray substance was in the tweezers’ grasp. As soon as the raven heard the rustle of the bag, it made the ghastly sound again—a rasping squeal that became a gurgle as it slurped down the offering. At once, it inspired both Gansey’s compassion and his gag reflex.
“Well, this is not going to do,” he said. “You’re going to have to make it stop.”
“She has to be fed,” Ronan replied. The ravel gargled down another bite. This time it sounded a lot like vacuuming potato salad. “It’s only every two hours for the first six weeks.”
“Can’t you keep her downstairs?”
In reply, Ronan half-lifted the little bird toward him. “You tell me. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

92:Sometimes we ate raw onions like apples, too, I wanted to tell her. Sometimes, the tin foil held shredded chicken petrified in aspic. A fish head to suck on! I was filled with shame and hateful glee: everything I was feeling turned out at the person next to me.

I was the one with an uncut cow's tongue uncoiling in the refrigerator of his undergraduate quad, my roommates' Gatorades and half-finished pad Thai keeping a nervous distance. I sliced it thinly, and down it went with horseradish and cold vodka like the worry of a long day sloughing off, those little dots of fat between the cold meet like garlic roasted to paste.

I am the one who fried liver. Who brought his own lunch in an old Tupperware to his cubicle in the Conde Nast Building; who accidentally warmed it too long, and now the scent of buckwheat, stewed chicken, and carrots hung like radiation over the floor, few of those inhabitants brought lunch from home, fewer of whom were careless enough to heat it for too long if they did, and none of whom brought a scent bomb in the first place. Fifteen floors below, the storks who staffed the fashion magazines grazed on greens in the Frank Gehry cafeteria.

I was the one who ate mashed potatoes and frankfurters for breakfast. Who ate a sandwich for breakfast. Strange? But Americans ate cereal for dinner. Americans ate cereal, period, that oddment. They had a whole thing called 'breakfast for dinner.' And the only reason they were right and I was wrong was that it was their country.

The problem with my desire to pass for native was that everything in the tinfoil was so f*****g good. When the world thinks of Soviet food, it thinks of all the wrong things. Though it was due to incompetence rather than ideology, we were local, seasonal, and organic long before Chez Panisse opened its doors. You just had to have it in a home instead of a restaurant, like British cooking after the war, as Orwell wrote. For me, the food also had cooked into it the memory of my grandmother's famine; my grandfather's black-marketeering to get us the 'deficit' goods that, in his view, we deserved no less than the political VIPs; all the family arguments that paused while we filled our mouths and our eyes rolled back in our heads. Food was so valuable that it was a kind of currency - and it was how you showed loved. If, as a person on the cusp of thirty, I wished to find sanity, I had to figure out how to temper this hunger without losing hold of what it fed, how to retain a connection to my past without being consumed by its poison. ~ Boris Fishman,

93:Except then a local high school journalism class decided to investigate the story. Not having attended Columbia Journalism School, the young scribes were unaware of the prohibition on committing journalism that reflects poorly on Third World immigrants. Thanks to the teenagers’ reporting, it was discovered that Reddy had become a multimillionaire by using H-1B visas to bring in slave labor from his native India. Dozens of Indian slaves were working in his buildings and at his restaurant. Apparently, some of those “brainy” high-tech workers America so desperately needs include busboys and janitors. And concubines. The pubescent girls Reddy brought in on H-1B visas were not his nieces: They were his concubines, purchased from their parents in India when they were twelve years old. The sixty-four-year-old Reddy flew the girls to America so he could have sex with them—often several of them at once. (We can only hope this is not why Mark Zuckerberg is so keen on H-1B visas.) The third roommate—the crying girl—had escaped the carbon monoxide poisoning only because she had been at Reddy’s house having sex with him, which, judging by the looks of him, might be worse than death. As soon as a translator other than Reddy was found, she admitted that “the primary purpose for her to enter the U.S. was to continue to have sex with Reddy.” The day her roommates arrived from India, she was forced to watch as the old, balding immigrant had sex with both underage girls at once.3 She also said her dead roommate had been pregnant with Reddy’s child. That could not be confirmed by the court because Reddy had already cremated the girl, in the Hindu tradition—even though her parents were Christian. In all, Reddy had brought seven underage girls to the United States for sex—smuggled in by his brother and sister-in-law, who lied to immigration authorities by posing as the girls’ parents.4 Reddy’s “high-tech” workers were just doing the slavery Americans won’t do. No really—we’ve tried getting American slaves! We’ve advertised for slaves at all the local high schools and didn’t get a single taker. We even posted flyers at the grade schools, asking for prepubescent girls to have sex with Reddy. Nothing. Not even on Craigslist. Reddy’s slaves and concubines were considered “untouchables” in India, treated as “subhuman”—“so low that they are not even considered part of Hinduism’s caste system,” as the Los Angeles Times explained. To put it in layman’s terms, in India they’re considered lower than a Kardashian. According to the Indian American magazine India Currents: “Modern slavery is on display every day in India: children forced to beg, young girls recruited into brothels, and men in debt bondage toiling away in agricultural fields.” More than half of the estimated 20.9 million slaves worldwide live in Asia.5 Thanks to American immigration policies, slavery is making a comeback in the United States! A San Francisco couple “active in the Indian community” bought a slave from a New Delhi recruiter to clean house for them, took away her passport when she arrived, and refused to let her call her family or leave their home.6 In New York, Indian immigrants Varsha and Mahender Sabhnani were convicted in 2006 of bringing in two Indonesian illegal aliens as slaves to be domestics in their Long Island, New York, home.7 In addition to helping reintroduce slavery to America, Reddy sends millions of dollars out of the country in order to build monuments to himself in India. “The more money Reddy made in the States,” the Los Angeles Times chirped, “the more good he seemed to do in his hometown.” That’s great for India, but what is America getting out of this model immigrant? Slavery: Check. Sickening caste system: Check. Purchasing twelve-year-old girls for sex: Check. Draining millions of dollars from the American economy: Check. Smuggling half-dead sex slaves out of his slums in rolled-up carpets right under the nose of the Berkeley police: Priceless. ~ Ann Coulter,

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