I have a new roommate, my cousin Sarah, who’s been living in the guest room since maybe a week and a half ago. The guest room: also known as the basement, the laundry room, the home cinema, the potential skating rink, the modern baroque dining room. Said modern baroque dining room has deep red flocked wallpaper, a long wood dining table so I no longer have to keep the guest list to six, and a row of Nicolette Brunklaus chandeliers—but so far it exists only in my head. But anyway. The roommate sitch has been going A-OK, it’s lovely having her around, but this morning I wonder if she’s dead. Tok-tok, that was the sound of me knocking on wood. No, but, really, is she asleep? is she awake but very, very quiet? is she even here? Certainly she seemed unfazed by Ren phoning four times within fifteen minutes earlier today. Thing is, she’s usually up and at ’em by nine or so, and it’s now almost noon and still not a peep. Meanwhile I’ve been creeping around being studious and considerate since a quarter to eight, and I want to know if I should keep creeping or if I can put on some Rilo Kiley loud-like.