During my college years, I went through scores of roommates. Thanks to a few "accidents" involving my gap-y, flap-y bathrobe, most of the roommates quickly fled. But you guys stuck around and became my closest friends, and I hope you accept my sincerest apologies.

Huffman, I'm sorry for making you drink so much. Your mom was more than just hot — she was also justified for calling me a bad influence.

Taking pictures when you passed out wasn't nice, either — but posting them on the Internet captioned, "Wondering who put that in your mouth: Priceless!" really went too far.

And Caleb. Should I start by apologizing for the physical, or for the emotional abuse? Let's just say I'm sorry for that time I found 450 New Kids On The Block posters by the dumpster and wallpapered your bedroom with them. I swear I had no idea you were bringing Cynthia "The Pretzel" Caldwell home, or that she would have such a bad reaction to Jordan Knight.

Oh yeah, and I'm sorry for making you put that thing in Huffman's mouth.

Finally, there's Marc. I stole your clothes, your food, and your girlfriend — I'm sorry for taking your clothes. And there was that time you tried to sublet your room for the summer, and that pacifist hippie was the only person who showed up. Huffman and I began cleaning shotguns, and I told the hippie he'd have to shoot rats with us at the dump on Tuesdays. That was wrong, but I'm not sorry because he smelled like cheese.

Saying I'm sorry doesn't come naturally to me, and I know it won't erase the time I barfed on the couch and left it for you guys to sit in. It's just that apologizing, like shampooing puke out of upholstery, isn't something I do very well. But I do hope saying I'm sorry will make ME feel a little better, clear my conscience, and prepare me for a fresh start. Because I have a new roommate, now — my girlfriend, Jen.

Living with my girlfriend has been quite a change from you guys. In our college days, Caleb and I threw Nerf footballs around the house and hit each other's private parts until one of us fell over crying, but I can't do that anymore. Jen throws a hard spiral and I hate crying in front of her.

Huffman and I used to do our grocery shopping at the liquor store because of their reliable supply of Funyuns. But now, after our first few trips to the "store", Jen has taken over the shopping responsibilities. I don't get as much beer anymore, but I did learn that "baked goods" come from the bakery section and not Chico in the alley.

Yet, the biggest thing I've learned over these past few months is how to do laundry. Clothes simply go into the hamper and, after a day or two, they appear in my dresser, neatly folded. But it's not so easy because you need to get the clothes right IN the hamper, and mine usually wind up somewhere in FRONT of the hamper, which is similar to the problem I have in the bathroom. Jen's working on that, too.

But unlike you guys, Jen has a flair for decorating. When we needed curtains in college, I went to Marc's room and stole the sheets. But Jen not only bought curtains, she put up things called "sheers" and "valences", which — despite their names — aren't types of underwear after all.

Unfortunately, I have to get rid of my "Guy Decorations". These include knickknacks and naked statuettes Jen finds unfit for public viewing. But what she really means is anything another woman would find hideous. Consider this exchange between Jen and our realtor, Kathleen, as they stood in front of my pride and joy — a giant tapestry depicting Algerian women smoking hookahs and playing poker.

Jen: Isn't this thing tacky?

Realtor Kathleen: Aaahhhhhhh!!! My eyes!!!!

I should point out that Kathleen, in addition to being a realtor, is a woman.

So Marc, Caleb, and Huffman, please accept my sincerest apologies — I need one of you to adopt a tapestry.

Copyright © 2005 Andy Murphy
Please do not remove the copyright from this work.

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