I truly can’t wait for my suite’s traditional Secret Santa. My roommates and I do it all together every year: drinking hot cocoa, playing Mariah Carey on vinyl, and exchanging presents to show how much we all love and value each other. But what my roommate doesn’t know is that this year, I have a trick up my sleeve.
One of my roommates has it coming. Last time I came home drunk, she called my mom to complain to her. She brought home a teacup pig for the communal space, but newsflash: teacup pigs don’t exist, and now a 400-pound porker just chills on our couch. She ate my last bag of Trader Joe’s Takis. Her pig, Gertrude, chomped off 7 inches of my hair in my sleep. She leaves her dishes in the sink for days. And Gertrude locked me in my room during my Psych midterm and went to my class to take it for me without studying; obviously, she totally tanked my grade (that stupid hog got the frontal and temporal lobes totally mixed up). Apparently, pigs and Freud don’t get along. The milking period for piglets is too long for that whole Oedipus thing.
Anyway, I’m really sick of my roommate and Gertrude’s disruptive habits. They’ve become some sort of hogwash hurricane that turns our apartment into a sty of chaos. So this year, I gave myself the ultimate present: I secretly transferred her and Gertrude to Dartmouth, the only Ivy League institution with an organic farm and a “Barnyard Studies” major. Don’t worry — they’ll fit right in once the admissions office mistakes them for an experimental livestock program.
