"Let's get together, yeah yeah yeah ..."

I think Roommate and I were separated at our respective births, two years apart.

If that makes sense to you, congratulations! Your brain has deteriorated even further than mine.

Anyway, at the very least, we are highly musically compatible, which is really all one can ask for in a roommate. You know, other than them not stealing your toys and throwing your dishes away (which, as I've found out the hard way, are actually valid concerns).

I don't know how the music conversation began, but before long, it consisted mainly of this exchange:

Roommate: "Oh my God, you like [artist name]?! I love [artist name]!! What about [other artist name]?"

Me: "Are you fucking kidding?? [singing favorite song by artist] Oh my God, I [experienced significant life-changing event] while listening to [artist name]! How about [obscure artist name]?"

Roommate: "AAAAHHH!!! You've heard of [obscure artist name]?? We are the SAME PERSON!"

Repeat.

The reason this kind of blows?

Mainly because due to Life being full of kick-you-square-in-the-crotch surprises, Roommate will be leaving to go home within the next few weeks, thus leaving the room open once again for any old dirty, lying, thieving, mentally-devoid skank to move in.

Of COURSE. Why not? After all, it's me. Someone up there knows you guys'll be bored to tears if happy things start happening to little ol' me.

See, all you atheists who enjoy a laugh at the misfortune of others? There is a God watching over you!

:::::

A gigantic, nearly-suffocating hug goes out to all you guys who wished me a Happy Anniversary despite the fact that Husband has proven himself to be about as endearing as a bucket of Bobby Brown's toenail clippings over the past few weeks.

He's improving. I swear on the frozen wedding cake in our freezer, he's improving. So shall we try for another year? I believe we shall.

I do miss him terribly. Only four months and 7,000 miles to go!

Hopefully by then, my facial skin will have decided to look like facial skin again, rather than the city of Pompeii after being devoured by an eruption similar to the ones my pores have produced, except with less boiling hot mag-ma.

I can see it now -- my triumphant return after twelve long months of desert deployment:

I rush into Husband's arms, overjoyed to finally be reunited. He gazes lovingly into my eyes, and says ...

"Holy FUCK! Did something eat your face??"

Then I remind him that he is a Giant Douchebag, and we get into a huge fight amidst all the embracing families, arguing all the way home, yelling at each other as we carry my bags into the house and throw them down in the living room, where we have spectacular make-up sex and all is forgiven once more.

Shut up.