Last year a girl I didn’t know moved in with me and my two other male roommates. It was weird. But during that semester, no matter how much I fought it, my living style changed, sometimes for the better, but mostly to the lamer. But, besides certain aspects of my life changing, I noticed a few things that surprised me about living with a member of the fairer sex.

The bathroom

No matter what anyone tells you, girls are definitely messier in the bathroom than guys. This really shouldn’t come as any surprise after seeing how long it takes girls to get ready for class or, God forbid, a night out. I guess I had originally assumed that girls take 30 seconds to apply makeup and then stand in the bathroom, not doing anything for the other 59 minutes and 30 seconds. I finally figured out that girls take so long to get ready because of all the products they apply everywhere on their bodies. Lotions, perfumes, potions, soaps, pads, dabs, appliances, colours, and unidentifiable containers with Chinese writing were always abundant in our bathroom.

The living room

There were a few big changes in our living room when the girl moved in. First, I felt extra nerdy playing video games for three hours at a time. When it’s just me and mes chiens, I had no qualms pwning noobs. But with a girl around, it became slightly embarrassing. Also, my television watching had to change. Either I felt compelled to watch more manly things, or when I did watch Say Yes to The Dress, I had to act like I didn’t love it (but come on, it’s a great show). Our pre-drinking situation also became way less manly because it turns out that hanging out without my shirt on while pounding PBRs before going out is not very attractive.

The kitchen

Maybe it was just my personal experience, but I have found that girls cook differently than guys. Girls are very into heating things up or cooking one small thing, and then leaving the dirty dishes next to the sink for five days. On the other hand, when I cook, I am using the whole kitchen and usually at least two or three burners. It can get messy, but I will clean up after dinner. Again, this could just be my experience, but every girl’s kitchen I’ve seen has almost been messy, and the leftovers are gross. Sorry, ladies.

Obviously, there are differences when living with a lover rather than just some girl you know, but I can tell you this: although chicks are awesome, living with dudes is sometimes just a lot easier.

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Until recently, I’ve always lived with girls. If I decided to play Miley Cyrus on repeat for weeks on end, or buy a vanilla scented candle, it was never a problem. But things change when you live with a member of the opposite sex, which I’ve discovered by acquiring a well-dressed, well-groomed European boy as my roommate this semester. The most important thing to say about my new roommate is that he has really, really good-looking friends. He also, for whatever reason, rarely leaves the house, leaving me with very little time in my natural habitat. He spends his days relaxing, and his nights congregating with his gorgeous posse in shared territory, which turns my apartment into a Eurotrash Esquire magazine headquarters. Two months of living with him has thoroughly modified the looks and content of my apartment, room by room.

The bathroom

What used to be a washroom facility is now a stronghold of objects masterfully hidden from the male gender. Age-old feminine secrets like the fact that girls poop, use tampons, and occasionally have weird facial hair can’t be tastefully tucked aside, and are instead now iron-bolted in an opaque container underneath a floorboard.

The kitchen

Boys eat at least twice as much as girls. It’s infuriating. Having a boy in your kitchen is a constant reminder of all the things girls can’t do in fear of morbid obesity, like eat a pizza as a snack or drink Gatorade instead of water. Suddenly my fridge—which previously contained a carrot, cheap white wine, and a tub of margarine—is filled to the brim with meat products and beer that’s at least 85 cents more expensive than the type I usually buy. Jerk.

Moreover, for reasons I can’t really explain, I am too ashamed to eat my feelings in front of my new roommate. When I have the urge, I now have to go to my neighbour’s house to eat a tub of peanut butter with a spoon.

The bedroom

Our apartment is configured so that people have to walk through my room to get to the kitchen. It’s unfortunate, but it’s cheap. However, this means that my bedroom is public domain to French and German bros who spend more money on their jeans than I do on my rent. The sacrifices I’ve made are probably for my own benefit, but embarrassing nonetheless. Long gone are the days of hanging around in the flowery sweaters my mom made for me when I was a fat fifth grader. I’ve even had to purchase a fair amount of lace underwear just to surface-cover my good old Fruit of the Looms while doing laundry.

As you can see, my current living situation has caused a fair amount of trouble in my day-to-day life. But let’s be honest, when my roommate brings his friends over to pre-drink and walk around shirtless (because that’s what hot people do), and when they insist on kissing both cheeks instead greeting me with a hug or a hand shake (because that’s what hot European people do), I know all the trouble is worth it.

Every morning I walk downstairs to the kitchen and make coffee. At what point my days began to necessitate a hot injection of caffeine, I can’t be sure, but what I do know is that the ritualized act of pouring Starbucks Kitamu into a filter and hitting a switch satisfies two of my most important recent-graduate needs: starting every day with a purpose, and trying my damn hardest to feel like a grown-up.

Of course, I am not a grown-up, and making coffee is usually the most productive thing I do in a day. But it helps sustain the illusion of a vibrant, worthwhile existence. Most of the time.

When I graduated from McGill in the spring, many of my friends asked me what I planned to do if I wasn’t going to graduate school. The majority of conversations went like this:

Friend: “What are you going to do with your lack of experience and  English degree?”

Me, full of confidence and irony: “Probably end up working at Quizno’s!”

Friend, nervously: “Ha, ha, ha!”

I would kill for a job at Quizno’s. Well, not really, but making sandwiches is much more lucrative than sitting at home playing guitar, checking Facebook, and deciding whether the photograph that will end up on the back of my bestselling first novel should be in colour or black and white. Sure, if I worked four days a week waiting tables, I could have time to enjoy all of the above while still making enough cash to pay rent, but when you factor in the return of 30 Rock and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.… Well, a man has to prioritize.

But I don’t want to sell myself short. I recently scored an unpaid internship at a well-known media outlet, and on my days off, I sell fruit at various farmers’ markets around Toronto. Take that, English Lit. degree.

Having been out of school for five months, the two most important things I took away from my time at McGill were a love of poutine and a very clear picture of my mind-boggling societal value. So far, neither has been especially helpful. Every time I’ve received a preliminary screening call from a prospective employer, I’ve been unable to stop myself from fantasizing about what Successful Me would look like 10 years down the road, after I’ve moved all the way up the company/organization/Quizno’s ladder through a combination of savage intelligence and knee-weakening charm, much like a half-Asian Don Draper. I’m fully aware that this is a counterproductive attitude to have as a recent grad without any real world experience, and eventually I’m sure that some combination of credit card debt, self-loathing, and a fast-drying reservoir of parental sympathy will catalyze a shift in my behaviour.

Actually, I do have the beginnings of a plan. I’m currently taking a certification program that will allow me to teach English to non-native speakers in strange, far-off lands. Having grown up in a strange, far-off land myself, I’m not anticipating too many problems adjusting, although I am a little worried that overly warm temperatures will severely hinder my ability to wear a suit and fedora once I rise to the top of my future language school. Thinking about it now though, I could definitely see myself leaning against a palm tree, lost in thought, gazing into a tropical sunset as I contemplate the follow-up to my Pulitzer-winning literary debut. I think that would make for a great photo on the inside of my book’s dust jacket.