I've been back on campus for a few days. I moved in early to help set up the radio station once more and to prepare for the veritable onslaught of dumb questions and bad ideas that begins every semester at the campus radio station. On Sunday, me three other roommates and I have a small "welcome back" party for ourselves and our friends.

It is during this little shindig that I meet our new upstairs neighbor. Her name is Ashley. Her stage name is "Sindee". You can see where this is going, probably.

She's nice enough, in what is, by her own assertion, a very ditzy way, and, somewhat unsurprisingly, enjoys a drink. She is quite frank about her employment, and may be the first person of her employment that I've ever met who I believed when she said she was doing to help pay her way through school. She's very into physical fitness, and wants to own her own gym someday. She hasn't planned it much further than the "I Wanna" phase apparently though.

We end up chatting for a bit as the Colts manage to become victors, and she seems to take a shine to me. We discuss the game (she likes the tight pants), our class schedules (she's taking Belly Dancing) and celebrities (she'd totally do Jessica Biel). It is soon after that last revelation that she reveals that she's "Bi", although, considering how many people aged 16-24 are "Bi" these days, take that as you will.

As things wind down, I show her my room. She tuts, asks me what the hell the Predator on my desk is, and asks if I'd like to see her room.

Honestly, she's not my type. Well, mentally. Physically, sure, and twice on Sundays, but it's become apparent from talking to her that she is no longer looking for a "quick fling" but a "serious guy, y'know? A really serious boyfriend who doesn't mind my job, y'know?" She says "y'know" a lot.

Her room looks like someone wrapped a Fairy, a Care Bear and a copy of Abercrombie & Fitch's Fall Catalog around some semtex and detonated it. There is pastel-pink everywhere. It's the girliest room I've ever been in. It's the kind of room one of the potential abortion candidates on "My Super Sweet 16" would live in. Even her iMac is pink, and covered in stickers. There are clothes, makeup and magazines everywhere. The place would be a pigsty if it weren't so glittery.

This dulls in comparison to what's playing on the iMac, however.

Porn. Hardcore amateur porn. Left there. Playing. Just playing.

I'm surprised, and act as such. She shrugs.

"Oh yeah, I love f*ckin' porn, y'know, the women are so hot and"…"

I'm fading out for the rest. There's pages and pages and pages of bad MySpace poetry on the walls. Written, of course, on pink paper, in darker pink ink. Every single lowercase I and J is dotted with a flower, a star, or a heart. Just above her bed is a series of pictures of her, and I'm wagering, her friends back home. Every single photo involves alcohol, partial or full nudity, or some mixture of both.

She sits down at her computer, still talking about porn. She apparently has quite the affection for it. Would she ever be in it?

"I dunno, like, sex is special, y'know? Unless it's a party or something."

But doesn't she want a serious boyfriend? A steady relationship?

"Well yeah, but y'know, he's got to be cool with me loving a lot of people, y'know?"

I do not press for a approximation of people she has loved.

She begins sifting through her collection. She has accrued a great deal, apparently, all mostly amateur stuff, all featuring girls roughly in our age group. If I were a "Race Studies" major I could probably make something of the fact that all the "actresses" are also white, but let's not go there.

She's got 80 gigs of it. 80. Gigs. Eighty Gigabytes of pornography, all crammed into categorized folders with names like "Pretty Girls", "Cute Boys", and other titles I shall not use here. She mentions that she doesn't really watch TV or many movies, she finds porn so much more entertaining. She says watching it helps her think of new stage moves. But she says she doesn't think she'll ever do it. She swears.

We drink and watch. The sheer volume and variety of her collection would require membership to at least 4-5 sites. I am, at this point, perplexed.

We grab another beer from her fridge, her lips loosen further. She is, apparently, convinced that if she becomes a famous enough stripper, that her career goals will fall into her lap. Short of that, she's apparently started posting herself in various states of undress all over the internet, soliciting "donations" from people for racier shots. She has been arrested before. Twice, once for public intoxication, again for criminal possession of five pounds of the wacky weed. Mysteriously, somehow the latter charges got dropped. She says she'd never do heroin, but has apparently dabbled in everything else. She's "estranged" from her father. Her mother doesn't know about her job. Big brother's stationed in Iraq right now.

I left her to her vices later that night, returning to the relative peace and quiet of my own room. Earlier tonight, I saw one of her roommates, Melissa, who I've known since last semester. Nice, well-balanced girl. Apparently, Ashley, who has been on the campus for exactly 48 hours, brought some boy (a freshman) back in the afternoon, and made the most of it, if you get my drift. He left, with her proclaiming him as her new "boyfriend".

She's promised to stop by our apartment occasionally. I'm sure she'll make life more interesting by her very presence.