Trying to work a bit out...
I hate roommates. As far as I'm concerned, roommates are just a reminder that you don't have your shit together. If you did, you'd own a house. No one chooses to live with someone they're not sleeping with by choice. If you live on your own, you don't suddenly decide there's an empty space in your life that can only be filled by a Vegan who labels her food and tapes a "garbage duty" schedule to the fridge that includes a multi-colored, hand-drawn picture of a trash can on it. No one ever thinks life would be better if they could share their living space with a German grad student and a freelance writer (read: works at home) who's learning the cello and doesn't think there's anything wrong with attempting to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star after ten o'clock at night. And nothing spruces up a home's common area quite like a bookshelf made out of stacked orange crates and a tie-dyed comforter draped over a torn couch. Who wouldn't want that?
At one point in my life I shared a tiny, two-bedroom apartment with a guy I couldn't stand. The only thing that kept me from murdering him was the awful realization that, if I killed him, I'd have to go back to basic cable. And although I wanted him out of my life, I couldn't justify murder if it meant losing The Larry Sanders Show. And you can't get HBO on a barrista's salary.
Ummmmmmm....that's all I have so far. And the pizza guy just came with my dinner.