I do not live alone, which is to say I have a roommate. 'Roommate', however, might not be the best term, since we do not actually share a bedroom. However, suite-mate sounds too pretentious and flatmate too British. So, despite the obvious imprecision and potential falsehood inherent in the statement, "I have a roommate", I will stick with this terminology. Not because I can't change, mind you. Only because I don't care enough to do so.

Speaking of things I don't care to do, I'd like to add one to the list: clean up my roommate's beard hair. We take turns cleaning up the bathroom. So far, so good. The plot begins to thicken, however, when it comes to light that my roommate is not clean-shaven. In fact, he cultivates a bit of facial hair. This is all well and good, save for the niggling matter of cleaning up after one's facial hair. Cleaning up the stray hairs from his beard-maintenance activities is one thing that my roommate often neglects to do. I have, as it turns out, occasionally complained somewhat about this very fact.

My (bearded) roommate, however, sees things slightly differently. Apparently he has complained to some of his department mates that the hair all over the sink-area is not his at all, but MINE.

This, it ought to be noted, is flat-out ridiculous. I do not have a beard. When I do shave, I shave straight out of the shower so that my face is still wet, and use slightly more shaving cream than necessary. In addition to preventing me from cutting my face off and leaving my cheeks baby soft, the use of shaving cream makes the hair stick to my razor. I can then easily wash that hair down the sink. Shaving, because my facial hair grows at a rate approximating continental drift, happens twice, perhaps thrice in a week. How the hell, then, can I be the one responsible for the hair that lies strewn about the counter around the sink? Somebody help me out here, because I honestly can't wrap my mind around this one.

Despite my frustration on this point, the war of words will likely remain just that. Granted, the "normal" thing to do would be to confront him about the problem and hash it out like gentlemen. But where did being normal and solving one's problems ever get anyone?

In a bi-polar world, negotiation is futile. If there is one thing that Rocky IV taught me, it was that the real enemy only respects one thing: your ability, when push comes to shove, to thrash him up and down in front of his friends and family. Rather than risk open conflict, the two of us will continue our global contest by proxy. We will meet him at the Sink-Basin DMZ. We will stand up to him at Kitchen Gulch. In each of these arenas as well as in the federated territories of the George Foreman our policy will remain, as it always has been, one favoring freedom. Keep in mind, that this is not just any kind of freedom. No, this situation calls for one thing, and one thing only: a renewed, vigorous and muscular American brand of freedom.

In the interest of making this policy stick, on the off chance that things head south in a hurry, and also because my lats need to be blasted, a unilateral policy of gym-hitting has been initiated here on Misfit Island. Truth and justice demand no less. Yet should this conflict burst forth into the open, the conclusion might not be as foregone as I would like. The cheap weight set I saw delivered to him and the vague clanking sounds I hear coming from his room can only mean one thing: The arms race is on.