Op-Ed: Yes, I Set 10 Alarms Between 7 and 8 AM. Does My Roommate Like Me?
By: Alicia Ge
Like any responsible adult with a deep respect for the morning — and a complete disregard for the fragile social contract of shared housing — I greet the day with a meticulously crafted system of alarms. Not one, not two, but an auditory experience extravaganza, performed every weekday between 7:00 and 8:00 AM for an audience of exactly one: my roommate, who has stopped making eye contact with me during breakfast.
Is she just tired? Or plotting my destruction via passive-aggressive Post-its?
Either way, each alarm serves a unique emotional purpose in my descent (or rather, refusal to ascend) into consciousness. Here’s the setlist:
Alarm 1: 7:00 AM
Sound: Silk Bells
A gentle prelude. An invitation. A chance to imagine I’m the kind of person who wakes up and journals. I don’t, but it’s important to pretend. My roommate sighs audibly. She must be so inspired by my commitment to self-betterment.
Alarm 2: 7:10 AM
Sound: Twinkle
Feels like being nudged awake by a benevolent woodland fairy. I reward her with a full-body spasm and a violent slap to my phone. Roommate rolls over. Possibly prays. I assume it’s for me.
Alarm 3: 7:15 AM
Sound: Circuit
Futuristic and jarring. I lie still, fantasizing about being someone who does sunrise yoga and drinks hot lemon water. I consider whispering “Namaste” to my roommate to set the vibe. I do not.
Alarm 4: 7:20 AM
Sound: Constellation
Dreamy and soft, like I’m floating through a galaxy of missed responsibilities. I internally monologue about how this will be the real alarm I get up to before slamming down on the snooze button like it owes me money.
Alarm 5: 7:25 AM
Sound: Reflection
Emotional. Soul-searching. I think about the life I could lead if I got up now: clean girl aesthetic, 4.0 GPA, early-morning coffee walks. My roommate groans, which is just the universe communicating through her that it believes in me.
Alarm 6: 7:30 AM
Sound: Chimes
This one is exclusively for theatrical purposes. I groan dramatically and roll over, announcing the start of the second half of the hour. Does my roommate enjoy the halftime show?
Alarm 7: 7:35 AM
Sound: By the Seaside
Light, tranquil, deeply ironic. As if I am anywhere near a beach. The only waves I feel are of nausea and regret. Roommate’s pillow is now fully over her face. Might just be blocking light. Might be suppressing a scream.
Alarm 8: 7:40 AM
Sound: Apex
This one feels serious. It sounds like the start of a movie. I wake up just enough to briefly check the weather and wonder if 15 minutes is enough time to do skincare, read for class, and reinvent my identity. (It is not.)
Alarm 9: 7:45 AM
Sound: Alarm
The big one. The showstopper. A piercing, apocalyptic screech that sounds like a fire drill and a car alarm had a baby and raised it in a nuclear test site. For some reason, every day, without fail, my roommate sits bolt upright every time, right as this one plays. I think it’s because the rays of sun hit her face at just the right angle.
Alarm 10: 7:55 AM
Sound: Beacon
The final plea. The curtain call. I lurch upright in bed like Dracula from a coffin. My roommate, now fully cleaned and dressed, avoids eye contact as she exits the room. Her silence speaks volumes. Unfortunately, I am hard of hearing.
And yet, despite this intricate ritual of sound, willpower, and psychological warfare … I never actually get up until my roommate, who has exactly one alarm and the discipline of a Navy SEAL, begins her morning routine.
It is not the twinkling of bells or the crescendo of Apex that stirs me from bed. It is the primal, soul-jarring sound of her hair dryer, paired with the quiet rage in her footsteps as she moves past my bed with all the grace of a caffeine fiend who needs their fix.
But hey, it’s not my alarms that are to blame, right?
I mean, she hasn’t said that she hates me. Not out loud. Not technically.
Still… she did send me a Venmo request for $3 last week labeled “emotional damages.”
So, like, probably fine.
Right?
