Ma Chambre (my room)
The title seemed foreign because you don’t read French (ma chambre translates to my room). My room feels like the glare of an alien, it is foreign and uncomfortable. There is no veneer of Pinterest perfection draped over my cinderblock walls. The faux-walnut closet my windbreaker occupies has probably been slammed, chipped, leaned against, and filled by tens of students before my arrival. The bed taunts me with the idea of birthing bedbugs, a prophecy some of my classmates found fulfilled (likely not by cognition, just poor luck). Sprinkles of chia seed and flax cover the linoleum floors and vinyl countertops like cinnamon on French toast. This unwarranted art installation is owed to my shaky hands and over-torn package spouts.
I have only two nights left in this dungeon I once willed myself to reside in. I am unable to pull a nostalgia-packed memoir chronicling my month-long relationship with a University of Montreal dorm room at this time—and likely not any time in the future. This post likely reads more like a Yelp rant-review of a rat infested restaurant. I give my dorm room 0.5 stars. Half a star goes to the security team that lent me their personal phone when my wallet was stolen.
Though the dorm life was not a good experience, it was a valuable one. Never will I take my bathroom for granted ever again. Good bye, erratic toilet, goodbye forever.