My Roommate:You can't wear a bathing suit around Venice.
Me: You obviously don't know me well enough
My Roommate: So, what kind of two-piece will you be wearing?
Me: Something frilly...
My Roommate: I didn't know they made frilly bathing suits...
Me: Sure, they make them for 6-year-old girls, and since I have the breasts of one of them, why not?

And so goes another late-night exchange between me and my roommate. They range from the bizarre to the extraordinarily fucked up. Tonight's opened with a conversation on the virtues of the "Chipwich" brand ice-cream over a Brownie Sundae, which then became an epic struggle between two ice-cream themed super-heroes. Captain Chipwich would, of course, win.

Having these sorts of conversations with my roommate makes me wonder sometimes if I actually possess any sort of sanity. I mean, would any sane person argue over whether or not Reykjavik is a romantic destination? Would any sane person give a damn? Would a sane man even know where Reykjavik was?

Should I just give up now, get a tattoo of a purple gorilla on my forehead and make a living by singing "Mr. Bo-jangles" on a street corner in Philadelphia? Or perhaps is there still hope for me yet?

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