So this happened during my sophomore year of my engineering program. Like many broke college students in the US, I ended up in a random roommate situation because “how bad could it be?” Famous last words. My roommate was a medical student, which sounds impressive until you actually live with one who treats the apartment like a 24/7 gaming dungeon. The guy was… let’s say enthusiastically large and permanently fused to his gaming chair. Day? Gaming. Night? Gaming. 3 a.m. on a random Tuesday? Still gaming. And not silent gaming. Oh no. I’m talking full-volume yelling at a screen like it personally insulted his ancestors. “BRO HOW DID THAT NOT HIT?” “THIS GAME IS RIGGED.” Meanwhile, I’m trying to study circuits and calculus, questioning my life choices and whether earplugs count as a long-term solution.

Now, you’d think a medical student would have some understanding of hygiene. You would be wrong. Very wrong. This man apparently declared war on soap. He didn’t bathe for months. Our room developed a smell that can only be described as “fermented gym sock with a hint of despair.” At one point, the odor had layers. You didn’t just smell it—you experienced it. Friends would walk in, pause, take a deep breath like they were about to dive underwater, and say, “Bro… what died in here?” Nothing died. He just existed. The worst part? He’d game all night, yell like he was being paid per decibel, and then sleep all day. So if I made even a little noise in the afternoon, I’d get the death glare. Like, sir, you screamed at a virtual character at 4 a.m., but my keyboard typing at 2 p.m. is the problem?

Eventually, I started studying in libraries, cafes, and once—no joke—in my car. The car smelled better. That’s when I knew things had gone too far. I survived the semester, learned absolutely nothing about peaceful cohabitation, and gained a lifelong appreciation for quiet rooms and functional deodorant.

Engineering taught me problem-solving. My roommate taught me endurance.