A typical two-bedroom in downtown Toronto rents for about $1400. To estimate the amount in U.S. Dollars, divide that by 1.5 ($933). One-bedrooms are a luxury, starting at around $1000. Even bachelors above ground start from around $700.

In a city like this, roommates are a necessity. But there's a problem: I hate people. It's not so much humanity in general that I have a problem with (OK, I do: I work in retail), but rather certain individuals. Until I moved out from my parent's house, I lived with my family, so you might think I'd be used to living with others, right?

Wrong.

My first roommate was a pen pal from Europe, who came to Toronto to take English classes. I offered him a place to stay because I desperately needed someone with whom to share the rent. It was either that or move to a cardboard box on Yonge Street. So it was settled and he moved in. However, there were a few details we didn't discuss before he arrived.

I found out he was smoking in his bedroom. I wanted a smoke-free apartment to go with the restaurants in town. I had assumed he didn't smoke. I assumed wrongly, but didn't know how to go about telling him to go on out the balcony to light up.

And then he'd walk around the place in his skimpy euro underwear. You could see the outlines of his... I don't even want to think about it.

One night after I finished showering before heading out skankering, he opened the door, said "sorry" and closed it. It was the longest three seconds of my life. When most normal people hear music coming from a bathroom where the shower has just stopped and the door remains closed, they generally assume someone is still in there. Unless you're this guy. Anyway: yes, I was naked; and yes, I was dancing; and yes, the next couple of days were awkward.

But the pièce de résistance was the kitchen.

I'm lucky enough to have a dishwasher. When dishes are dirty, you put them inside and when it's full, you turn it on. The roommate would leave his dishes in the sink, on the counter and - give me strength Lord Jesus! - ON the dishwasher.

My kitchen is my castle, and everything has a place. I took the doors off most of the cupboards to open up the space and show off my dishes. Anyone could easily tell where everything goes, but when this guy unloaded the dishwasher, things never seemed to end up back the way they're supposed to be.

By December, I realized I was turning into my mother, having silent conniption fits whenever I noticed something out of place. Maybe it's because I'm mentally unstable, neurotic and a neat-freak, but several months of this finally got to me. Never said anything, though, because I feared turning into Mom.

He's gone now. He left to go back when his classes finished at the end of March. I've been alone for four months. Four glorious, solitary months. Things are back the way they're supposed to be. I'm happy. Broke - no, debt-ridden - but happy.

I've got a friend staying with me this week. If all goes well - that is, if we don't kill each other - he's in for good. He puts his dishes in the dishwasher but needs to learn how to maximize the space. He also needs to study the cupboards after I unload the dishwasher. I'll give him a test at the end of the week.

It could have been worse, I suppose. The old roomie could have been a psycho killer who chopped up bodies in his bedroom and took up all the space in the freezer to store them.