There was Aaron, a moppy-haired engineer who, by day three, had already fully embraced the shower-free, anti-deodorant, sweatpants-and-flip-flops lifestyle of the college professional. But I saw an open seat at a table full of guys I recognized from our dorm, and asked if I could join. I went to the dining hall by myself and walked with my tray to find an empty seat, presumably to plot how I’d spend the next four years in solitude. (Note: Kellan is not his real name, but it is the name of a gay porn star I like, so we’ll call him that to spare him scrutiny and also to further indulge my fantasies.) By the third day of orientation, my given roommate Troy - a wannabe frat boy with an outsized ego and zero game - having already decided I was a social liability, had ditched me for what he deemed a more lucrative social circle and left me to find dinner alone. I met Kellan on the third day of our freshman year of college, at a dining hall table of misfits.
