Returning to Duke after a semester abroad comes with mixed feelings. No news there.
On one hand, if you're like me, you're looking forward to catching up with old friends-the Chick-fil-A ladies, that kid whose backpack tripped you on the C-1, Tiny Grey Campus Cat-and moving into a sweet supposed single in Kilgo, where you can plot new ways to combat your anti-social behavior without the annoyance of another person in the room.
On the other hand, you find out your "single" is actually a double, and your roommate is a ladybug.
That might not sound like a big deal, but had I been a triskaidekaphobic coulrophobe with thaasophobic tendencies, the experience of discovering my little friend would have been akin to walking in on 13 circus clowns, stuffing themselves into my closet, and a chair.
My room as a child was a Mecca for ladybugs, and every winter these be-spotted pilgrims would seek haven in my sanctuary, dotting my walls with shades of red bordering on orange and brown. They littered their carcasses along my windowsills and in my lampshades in scoopable amounts. Sometimes I would wake up to the pee-inducing sensation of six little legs crawling across my cheek.
In short, it was traumatizing, and when, unpacking, I came across a reddish and mobile dot on my ceiling, I surrendered the bedroom and moved into the closet. To be fair, the ladybug had dibs.
But part of returning to Duke comes with readjusting to the University, now eerily familiar and foreign at once, and acquainting yourself with all the new faces on West, whether propped up by two legs or six.
So in the name of embracing this transition-and because I suspected sleeping in my laundry hamper would have a Bonsai-Kitten effect on my spine-I made peace with the pest.
After all, the ladybug could be the room's former occupant suffering from an unfortunate metamorphosis a la Gregor, which would explain how I ended up in Kilgo, a circumstance my non-abroad, Central-bound peers like to repeat in mild disbelief and medium-to-spicy jealousy ("I'm in Kilgo." "You're in Kilgo?!").
And if this were the case, my Blue-Devil-turned-red-insect friend has chosen a size more manageable than that imagined by Franz Kafka and more reasonable than my current stream of logic, a gesture my nerves appreciate.
In return, recognizing that random roommate assignments have every potential to run sour, I try to accommodate my ladybug's interests and be a most excellent roomie.
I give the ladybug space. Sometimes she spends the entire day brooding on the ceiling, so I try to avoid her favored upper right-side corner at the front of the room. Everyone is entitled to some privacy. And I can't climb walls. Though I've tried.
Other days, I spend time with the ladybug. We've developed a sort of playful dynamic and have this hilarious game where she wanders in circles above my bed at night and I cower beneath my sheets.
Of course, not everything is as rosy red as her spotted shell. Sometimes she smashes into the room at 2 a.m., wakes me up, pukes on the carpet and passes out. I've been really meaning to approach her about her wild behavior... but it's college, and everyone wants to have a little fun, and I just want to avoid conflict, y'know?
Deep down, I know we're forming some sort of special bond. One morning she was no where to be seen, and I was terrified I'd accidentally eaten her in my sleep. It happens, but it would be a shame, because in this lonely semester of this lonely year, with my fellow juniors spread between three campuses and several continents, and everyone panicking with the realization that there is life after Duke and it's coming for us fast, a little company means a lot.
It would also be gross.
Lysa Chen is a Trinity junior. Her column usually runs every other Monday.
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