Allow me to paint the scene. You’re in a (basically) spotless apartment with a lot of wine and scents of Bath and Body Works candles mixed with freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. There are beautiful decorations and mirrors throughout the house. It’s politely quiet except the laundry machine operating and the gossip queens upstairs. You don’t want to join them because for all you know it could be you that they are complaining about. And it’s always the same conversations anyways — boosting their self-esteem because some sister gained .3 pounds or bitching about a guy saying hello to another chick at the grocery store. The mood of the ecosystem is equivalent to girls’ personalities: pleasantly fake. Nobody has the balls to come right out and communicate the little things that pester them. Instead, girls will wait until they burst with rage and cause mass drama among the roommates. They behave like The Real Housewives of Orange County. You move in as friends and move out as frienemies.
I would know, I’m one of them.
Don’t get me wrong, there are loads of benefits to living with other girls. You always have someone there to truthfully tell you that your huge kahunas are overflowing out of your tank top to the point where you now look like you belong on The Jersey Shore. When there is a Golf Pro’s and Tennis Hoe’s themed frat party, they just might lend you a skort and visor that makes you look fresh out of Wimbledon. And they always have a hair tie when a fountain of vomit is pouring out of your mouth.
I, however, have done the unheard of. I have gone places most girls’ parents wouldn’t dream of letting their little princess going. I live in a house with guys. That’s right, penises belong in every room, and not as girl roommates’ slams or boyfriends. Toilet seats are left up and it often smells of leftover fried chicken and beer. The ground is sticky 30 percent of the time. And don’t you dare sit on “that one couch.” But you know what’s bizarre? I don’t mind the sickness because I love everything else that comes along with it.
My house is a total frat scene. There are four guys, each in different fraternities, along with me, who’s in a sorority. Talk about Greek unity at its finest. So the obvious first bonus to living with scrotum owners is that they know how to rage like Charlie Sheen. It’s a castle filled with lifestyles of binge-drinking and sexual debauchery. The refrigerator looks like it impregnated top shelf bourbon and cheap light beers. And you can bet your ass our decorations are 50 percent empty whiskey and vodka bottles above the cabinets because hell yeah it’s impressive to submerge your liver with that much booze and live to tell the tale. The other 50 percent of our house decorations are American flag themed or frat paddles and posters.
I’m also happy to have been blessed with frat roommates because I never need to call Uber. I will always have four different fraternities to find a pledge to freely drive me from drinking suspect red punch to indulging in a breakfast taco late at night and then eventually home. These guys get shit-canned five times a week and are some of the rowdiest boat shoe-wearing, slicked-back hair styled men I have ever come across, and I couldn’t look up to them any more than I already do.
Sure, they get a ton of ass. Definitely not every night like people assume frat guys do. But I’ve witnessed more walk-of-shame dark undereye circles in the mornings on other chicks than I’ve seen on myself, which is striking considering my freshman year. I’ve even caught a used rubber on the staircase. However, that was disgusting enough for all of us to discuss. Which, by the way, is impressive to even occur. Girls just hold in their anger and keep things bundled up while silently hating everyone. One of my roomies is Mr. Serious Relationship, and he gives me so much relationship advice that I want to shout and throw bricks at his head for his honesty that I don’t want to hear/believe.
But that’s just another reason to love living with men. When you live with male friends that you wouldn’t sexually touch with a 10-foot pole, they want to act as your bodyguard and treat you as their little sis. They’ll tell you the truth even when you don’t want to hear it. That guy who texts you sweet things all day and keeps saying he will take you on a date, bails, and then texts you at 3 a.m.? Yeah, he’s only in for your vagina. Your girl friends will not know what to tell you because they probably like him as a person too and want to think highly of him. Guy friends are more realistic. And the best part is that when you have boy issues, and said boy crush treats you shitty enough, your guy friends are the first to throw fists. They might joke about having a woman to make them sandwiches, which let’s be real, never happens. But you’ll find no one faster to defend a lady than a guy who lives with one.
But the absolute best part about living with men is the chill setting. There is hardly ever any drama with each other. You will never hear about Riley eating your ex’s face off at a bar on Friday night, or how Andrew just got in a new relationship with a total slut. When their bros come over, they all treat you with respect and consider you part of the crew. The only yelling that happens is when they are balls-deep into a video game and losing, or during beer pong and hardly miss a cup. Regardless of how often we have to negotiate cleaning and decorations, everything else makes up for it..
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Kellie Stritz
Kellie, spelled with an "ie," practically resides at Starbucks even though they have yet to spell her name correctly. She's obsessed with the color pink, Elle Woods, and Bitmoji's. Her biggest accomplishment is breaking the record within her sorority for how many standards hearings she has had without getting kicked out. She spends her free time trying to stay tan (i.e. sunburnt) and stalking people on social media.
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