'##::::'##:::'#####:::'########: VIVA LA REVOLUCION! CERDO DEL CAPITALISTA!! ##:::: ##::'##.. ##:: ##.....:: =========================================== ##:::: ##:'##:::: ##: ##::::::: THE HELOTS OF ECSTASY PRESS RELEASE #330 !! #########: ##:::: ##: ######::: ZIEGO VUANTAR SHALL BE MUCH VICTORIOUS! !! ##.... ##: ##:::: ##: ##...:::: =========================================== ##:::: ##:. ##:: ##:: ##::::::: "I Need a New Roommate" !! ##:::: ##::. #####::: ########: by -> Cyn !! ..:::::..::::.....::::........:: 12/11/98 !! !!========================================================================!! I'm living in a deadhead paradise. It's like living with my mother in the sixties. Except my mom's got taste. Yesterday I was talking to my friend Wendy about what it's going to be like next year, when I room with one of my friends, and I came close to crying. "My room will be full of pretty things," I said. "There will be no black light posters . . . no Grateful Dead music . . . no potheads saying how things are 'sketchy' or 'phatty' . . . no stench of patchouli . . . it'll be SO BEAUTIFUL," I said, tearing up. Wendy just nodded indulgently. "It's okay, Cyn," she said, "It's okay." I should probably have had the foresight to write "NO DEADHEADS" on my room application. After all, I am going to Oberlin, liberal oasis in the cultural dearth that is Ohio. (Alums include: Liz Phair, Ben of Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, and Dr. Kevorkian.) But no, silly me, I claimed to be tolerant of all musical tastes. That was before I got to listen to everything the Dead has ever performed. And the bootleg live tapes. On the bright side, when I'm trying to ignore the dead, at least I don't have to listen to her crack pot theories. The other day I had to leave to avoid mocking the six very stoned people sitting in my room talking about how AIDs is a government conspiracy. "But wait!," I wanted to say, "Hasn't it occurred to you that your theory is incredibly asinine?" You can smell the patchouli before you actually enter my room. My friends have started actively mocking me about it. "Hey, Cyn," they say, "What's that I smell? Patchouli?" "Cyn, I think you smell kind of like . . . patchouli!" To which I reply "Hey. Fuck you." But on the bright side, I have lost all ability to smell patchouli. And the room smells better than when she doesn't burn incense, because then the odor of pot and stale beer emerges. Yes, stale beer. My room is the beer bottle equivalent of an elephant graveyard. On one rare occasion where I was actually cleaning, I moved a chair and found two six packs of empty beer bottles that had been there apparently for months. Beer bottles linger in our room for days, weeks even. Sometimes I give in and take them out for her. I think she believes that the Beer Bottle Fairy comes and takes them away. Or maybe she thinks someone stole them. For all I know, she's saving them to build a house or something. On a positive note, the black light poster did come down, after she failed in her attempt to affix it to the ceiling. Only a semester to go. And then my room is a hippy-free zone. !!========================================================================!! !! (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! #330 - WRITTEN BY: CYN - 12/11/98 !!