The Revolution Is The Worst Room Mate Ever

The Revolution Is The Worst Room Mate Ever
Copyright © 2005 By Curtis Meyer

Contrary to popular belief, The Revolution will be televised

In fact, he’s on TV constantly

Jumping behind reporters during the 6 o’clock news
Waving his hands up and down like he’s signaling a plane

The Revolution is a white guy with dreads

All his clothes are made of hemp
Except that Che Guevara t-shirt he picked up at Hot Topic in the mall

You’ve been roommates for about six months now
And you can honestly say you can’t stand the guy

You don’t kick him out though, because he always buys beer
Even if it’s with your money

He leaves the apartment a mess,
And you frequently find yourself lighting incense to cover up the smell of bong water

The walls of his room are adorned with black light posters of Bob Marley

A lava lamp, (green naturally), rests atop his bedpost

Piles of clothes lay scattered about the floor

He experiments with religion on a regular basis
Last week, he was Pagan. A month before it was Buddhism.
Today, he’s coming off a Wiccan phase to go Rastafari

You know he’s just looking for an excuse to light up

The Revolution’s always spilling soy milk all over the rug
And you’ve given up on telling him that as a vegan
In no way should he be swiping your pepperoni bagel bites

The Revolution is the one guy you can’t take anywhere

Strangers are always high-fiving him. Women go out of their way to give him hugs

He’s kind of like Matthew McConaughey’s character in Dazed & Confused
Crossed with Paulie Shore- Sort of dopey, and always at his deepest while high

When his hippie friends come around
They’re always freestyling under a cloud of smoke

All the The Revolution ever rhymes about is pot and getting stoned  

His idea of politics is, “Aiyo, fuck that nigga George Bush”

Did I mention he’s white?

Your parents met him once. Every time you call your mother now
The first words out of her mouth are, “Hi sweetie. How’s The Revolution coming along?”

The Revolution’s the one guy everyone loves, but you

The landlady who bites your ear off turns into a lapdog when he arrives in your presence
Once she leaves, you remind The Revolution that his half of the rent is due

He replies with, “Fuck that shit man. That Chinese bitch ain’t gon’ do shit.”

You tell him, “Rev, Miss Lee’s Korean.”

   “Whatever. China…Korea…They’re both part of the same country.”

You bite your tongue to prevent from telling him that Asia isn’t a country
Knowing it wouldn’t matter anyway    

Every day it’s the same routine:
You come home to find The Revolution playing XBox
After returning from your job at Weenie World

“So Rev,” you ask over your shoulder, “How’s job-hunting going?”

“Nothing today man,” he says, blasting pixilated zombies

You want to smash the lava lamp into his face

   “Rev, you need to get off your ass and start job searching.”

   “Maybe I don’t want to be like some people and sell my soul to the corporate monster."

   “…By the way, can I borrow ten bucks for a pack of Bud?”

Your left eye twitches, but being the tool you are, you hand him the cash anyway

Later, as you come home, The Revolution’s resting on the couch
His arms around that Japanese girl you’ve been too shy to ask out

“Who’s your friend Rev?” she asks.

You introduce yourself, adding as you shake hands,

   “You’re Yuri Fukima. You sit three rows in front of me in Humanities class”

Yuri confesses to never having seen you before in her life
It is now the week before final exams

You want to pull The Revolution’s braids out of his skull and shove them down his throat

Somewhere along the lines, he convinced you to start attending poetry slams

Your poems about missing your ex-girlfriend always lose

Not that they’re poorly written,
It’s that everyone gets caught up in the hooting and hollering
Paying tribute to the in-house celebrity

Your sister tells you she really liked your poems and thinks you were robbed

Then she asks, “By the way, is The Revolution single?”  

You sigh a sigh that has become more of a reflex than an act of self-pity

The next day you’re slamming your fist on the door to his room

   “Yo Rev! Wake up! You need to pay your half of the rent!”

Perhaps too asleep to register your request, he yells back,

   “Do it yourself! Fuck man…”

And for a moment, you stop to think about school,

Your bills, your future, your dead-end job, gas prices,

The void left in your lonely heart,

The wrath of whatever administration decides to fuck you over,
The hope that one day you’ll make a difference in the world,

And you wish for one second you could do it all by yourself

Without ever having to wait on The Revolution