I woke up in the middle of the night to find my flatmate watching Obama's inauguration. He wasn't particularly noisy, our TV set was barely audible. Maybe it was the energy from that crowd that I felt and eventually disrupted my slumber.
In anyway, I only half-opened my eyes, and went back to sleep.
There are talks in the office about the Democrats' policies on outsourcing, and people are worried.
I couldn't care any less.
I know I'll pick up the pieces. Maybe find a decent HR job. Or a gig as a guidance councilor in some high school. That'll be a blast. Me, in that kind of environment. Imagine the scandal if they found out one of the parents are getting my "services" for some after school private lessons.
Just to give you a sense space: Our apartment is basically a square box. There's a loft on the side of the door/corridor, and to get there, we had to climb on the metal ladder mounted on the wall. It's big enough to be considered a sleeping area, but it's too far high up to actually be one. Especially since my flatmate and I are both boys, we'd be running the risk of rolling over the edge and killing ourselves. Imagine that: falling to your death from the loft of your own flat.
There's a sink, a bit of tiled space, and some cupboards beneath it. We call this our kitchen. We have a single burner that runs on electricity. Near that is our square table that can be folded for extra space. It's a dining-cum-study-cum-drafting table. We have our closets standing side-by-side to visually divide that area from the living-cum-sleeping area.
By living-cum-sleeping, I literally mean living+sleeping and cumming. Most of our shit, we've stashed in the loft above (like my abs rolling machine, my books, his fucking bicycle). On the space that greets you as soon as you enter the door, we've laid down a couple of thin, spongey mattresses. This is where we hang out, laze around, sleep. You must think it's homoerotic to have two boys sharing what constitutes as one bed, but it's not. We are stinky, smelly boys, and we don't fall into graceful, sexy poses as we sleep. We wake up in awkward angles, smelling of sweat and spoilt saliva. We sometimes get too lazy to take a shower. This isn't your Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue, not a series from Showtime. This is real life, and real life isn't as sexy as the boys you see on TV.
Just in case you're wondering: NO, I don't DO my flatmate. I've never DONE him, and NEVER WILL DO him.
And he has no idea of the double life I live.