Who’s your favorite writer? People ask me that all the time. I say David Sedaris because I’ve learned that people tend to take it the wrong way when I say “Myself!” and pull up my shirt to reveal the Greatest Writer in the World championship belt that I made out of cardboard and gold foil. Maybe you don’t  agree that I am David Sedaris’ daddy in the prose department. But answer me this: Is David Sedaris going to ask you to live with him? No. But I will.
    I need a roommate. My brother got in to law school and is moving out. Hence I’ve been renting my extra bedroom to vagrants. Any reader who happens to be my landlord should know I’m kidding about that last part. I let the vagrants stay for free.
    Before I get into the details of my swank crib, let me explain the personal characteristics that my remaining roommate, Scott, and I are looking for: We have agreed that the Ideal Candidate will be a hot chick who likes to hang around naked and cook buffalo wings (because it makes us feel uncomfortable if we’re the only ones doing that). The Ideal Candidate will also be tolerant of our basic habits, which include building Jenga-like stacks of unsorted junk mail on the kitchen counter, diligently cleaning the bathroom every quarter and drunkenly yelling at one another.
    Here’s a question that will reveal how well you will fit in at our apartment: If the Brita was empty but the sink was too crowded with dirty dishes to refill it, what would you do? If you answered “do the dishes and then fill the Brita,” you could be my new roommate. If you answered “shove the dishes aside as much as possible and fill the Brita with roughly one glass of water before replacing it, almost-empty, in the fridge,” then you’re too much like me. And like they say, opposites attract.
    The Ideal Candidate will also have a TV, because my bastard brother is taking his with him. It would be nice if said TV was a newer wide-screen plasma model, but that’s not crucial. A high-end direct-projection set, 32 inches or larger, will suffice.
This is my own preference, but my Ideal Candidate also wouldn’t be too much of a hippie. I already live with Scott and I wouldn’t want a two-thirds hippie majority forcing me to listen to Widespread Panic and watch Teton Gravity Research ski movies all the time.
    So that’s who we’re looking for: A hot, female, buffalo wing-cooking, Brita-refilling, plasma TV­owning non-hippie. But we’re willing to consider anyone who can pay $670 per month and has nothing more serious than a misdemeanor on his or her criminal record.
    You may be wondering what you’ll get for your $670, other than the opportunity to cohabitate with two sophisticated intellectuals. Well, we no longer have mice, for starters. We haven’t gone grocery shopping in two months and I think we’ve starved them out. The biblical flooding that became a regular occurrence during the construction upstairs has also relented. And we have a nice new refrigerator. It’s a Sub-Zero....OK, it’s actually a Chinese Frigidaire knockoff—I believe it’s a Hridgidair—but if that’s a problem, I’ll have you know that I don’t want to live with an appliance snob anyway.
    Your new bedroom has an industrial-chic decor reminiscent of an old laundry room or walk-in closet. Possibly this is because it is an old laundry room or walk-in closet. The gas meter hanging in the corner makes an excellent conversation piece, plus you can make a chart of the apartment gas usage if you’re into that. You won’t have a hardwood floor, but you can go walk around on the one in the living room anytime you want.
    The location is Beacon Hill. If you have a car, you’re automatically disqualified, because I’m not about to give myself one more person to compete with for a parking space. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor. If Hell had a parking area, it would be Beacon Hill on a street-cleaning day. Spaces open up more often on the Supreme Court. The National Aeronautic and Space Administration recently concluded that there are no signs of spaces on Beacon Hill. You get the picture.
    If, after reading this, you somehow want to live with me, send me an e-mail. Or a sample of your buffalo wings. *