I'll Miss You, Constantly-High-Bed-Rotting-Trust-Fund-Baby Roommate

My roommate is a special kind of person, and damnit, he's my person. I remember when I met his 75-year-old dad and boob-jobbed, newly 40 mom on move-in day, I thought to myself, "this is what Southern California is all about." From then on, he was my best friend, even if he didn't know it. So, with the end of freshman year around the corner, I figure it's time to tell him how I feel. This is for you, roomie.

I'll miss the way you don't talk to me, and the way you're always here. I'll miss the way you drive your brand-new BMW, drunk--I'll miss your empty cans of beer. I'll miss your big Louis Vuitton boots, and the way your bong got us fined. I'll miss you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I'll miss it when it's ten in the morning and you're getting high. I'll miss the way you never go to the caf, and how you leave your contacts on the bathroom floor to dry. I'll miss your fragrant DoorDashed seafood dinners, and the fact that you'd never call. But mostly I'll miss the way you don't clean up your shit. Not even a little bit, not even at all.