My roommate my first year of college was named Sophia and she was from New York--the actual city--and she could carelessly apply silvery eyeshadow with two swipes of her fingers as she got ready to "go out"--whatever that meant on a weekend in a tiny town in Ohio. I would see Sophia around Kenyon late at night, draped in oversized jackets which I knew looked reprehensible on the hanger, but so glamorous on her, with her icy white t-shirt and her expensive boots. This was the 80s. My prized possession, clothing-wise, when I arrived at Kenyon, was a pair of pale purple corduroy pants from the Limited. (I know I'm losing readership here with this talk of clothing, but I know you see the essential point here: I spotted Sophia on the way home from the library). I've been thinking about roommates again this week because I've been in the hospital (not to worry--leaving for home soon), and I have roommates. Technically only one, named Crystal, but she has an entourage of