Play on Player
Let’s play “woe is me” for a second here.
I understand the plight of the middle class, the homeless, and hurricane victims, but right now I’m a little frustrated and miffed. You see, that’s what happens when you end up with hot roommates.
My roommate is hot. Not in an “I’m attracted to him” way, but in a “girls love him and want to hook up with him” way (and for the record, after college, is it ok to use the terms “hook up” and “walk of shame”? I wonder). He’s had a date every night for the past three weeks. Girls that come into his work, practically fawn and swoon over him. I’m thinking it’s because he can get them in the door. But still, I must say that he’s smart, nice and a lot of fun; thus the reason for why he’s my roommate and friend.
(For the record, as I sit and type this, I’m watching the Yankees lose and try to get my night guard to mold to my teeth properly. I feel like a pubescent teenager who didn’t get asked to the dance.)
My previous roommate, Kimber, was (ok still is) also hot. And she too gets her fair share of ass. She too falls in the nice, smart and fun category. And also into the ‘playette’ category.
For the record, I’m not anal about hooking up and or dating. It’s not something I’m constantly thinking about and obsessing over, unless someone else has brought up the subject. That said, there are times, such as now-while trying to get my dental appliance to not be painful-I think about why I’m not capable of “player hood.” Not that it’s my ultimate goal in life, but Lord knows there is no hotness to me.
Oh, but sometimes, I will admit, I wish there was.
Addendum: Roommate just finished playing his Acapella tape for this evening’s girl (a girl who didn’t even know that Randy Johnson plays for the Yankees). Kimber sings and was a musical theater major. I play the clarinet. I get hotter every second.