Growing up, I loved having a tidy room. I’d make my bed, lay out my pajamas at the foot like the Brady kids in The Brady Bunch, and keep everything in order. I had my own bedroom. I was in charge. It felt easy, and comforting.

Then my parents divorced, and tidiness became about more than just neatness—it was surthrival.

With a two days here, two days there, “free day” in the middle schedule, I had to perfect my organizational routine. If I didn’t know where my things were, I risked adding even more stress to my already overwhelmed parents.

My sisters, on the other hand, were a bit of a hot mess. Watching their struggles only reinforced my commitment to order.

And then came college.

I was excited. For the first time since middle school, all my belongings would be in one place—no more packing bags, no more bouncing between two homes.

But that one place also came with a roommate named George.

(Not his real name. Maybe he’s out there now, living in a spotless house, alphabetizing his spice rack, folding his fitted sheets with precision. Although I doubt it.)

At first, things were fine. We exchanged pleasantries, divided up our space into two sides, and got things moved in and organized. We started strong.

And then came day two.