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As they pour you a screwdriver, I'll wonder meekly if anyone would partake in merely a cup of orange juice. Yes, the ice cube is still an option.When one of them finds a terribly unsubtle reason to show off his tattoos, and the other a chance to flex his pop-culture muscles, toned from living in all ten years of the nineties (LIVING! IMAGINE THAT!), I'll briefly make eye contact with you and wonder what would happen if we were to meet under any other circumstances. At the Art Institute, that custom Cupcakes place on Wellington, the cinema or maybe the street (imagine that!).Then I remember, you always end up fucking my roommate, who'll never talk to you again. As a result, the next time you see me on the street, you'll glare at me, and a little more of my self-esteem with get whittled away. Too bad my roommates don't suffer vicariously through me.So, please. Stop fucking my roommates. For the love of God- don't get drunk with them, don't let them show you their tattoos, don't sit next to them on the couch and shrug when they begin to drape their arm around you, don't let them finger you, or go anywhere near your holiest of holies. Show some goddamn restraint instead of becoming yet another notch on their beds. The casualty list this month is nine or ten, I don't really remember.Stop fucking my roommates.Stop fucking my roommates.Stop fucking my roommates (imagine it!).If you write that down, you'll remember it better. Do not fuck them, do not pass Go. Go straight to low self esteem, yours and mine.Stop fucking my roommates.Thank you.