Simon, aged twelve
I have a room-mate named Simon. He’s twelve years old. Generally I don’t have any problem with him: I don’t see him a lot, so it’s basically like I have my own place. The thing is, though, he keeps all his stuff in boxes, and these boxes just take up so much space. The boxes are never opened, they just sit in the corner, or under my desk, or where ever, and it’s really frustrating. I sort of want to just throw them all out. Simon would never stand for that, though.
The boxes contain all his favourite things. There’s one box, for example, that has all his hockey cards in it. He doesn’t use his cards any more; they just sit in the box taking up space, but the cards are so important to Simon. The hockey cards are his ‘in’, socially. It helps him make friends, talk to people, to not feel like a loser. I don’t get it myself: I hate hockey.
I have another room-mate named Simon who’s the same way, actually. This second Simon is seven years old, only, but it’s the same deal. He has all these boxes all over our apartment. They’re filled with these toys and stuffed animals… He never does any thing with them. I don’t have any use for toys and stuff, so I’m all for getting rid of them; clearing the space. He likes them all so much, though. He’d never let me throw them out.
But there’s still another room-mate. Simon, aged fifteen, lives with me, too. Again, all his stuff is in boxes—except for a couple of things which I use, like an old bookshelf. He has this girlfriend that he loves so much, and that’s all the stuff that’s in his boxes: pictures, letters, love poems… It makes me sick, because I know his girlfriend’s no good for him. That she’s a total bitch. I really really wish I could throw all that junk out of my place, but of course, Simon wouldn’t have it.
So here I am, living with all these other guys. I never see them, but all this crap of theirs is all over my place. But what can I do? I really need to get my own apartment.