It would've been easier to be my roommate if I wasn't so perfect all the time.

Straight A's, dressed in meticulous chic, silky black hair and makeup flawless even during the hellish rigors of finals week. I don't get drunk at parties, don't bring boys home, never even so much as swear. The model Asian-American. Your own antics don't seem to ruffle me - I've never judged you for how much less put together your life is compared to mine, which only makes it all the worse.

So you don't think much of when I don't come home one night. After all, when I left for Cindy's party, I was all smiles and high spirits. Strikingly dark eyeliner, black hair in a long braid, silky stockings running up to a strapless, formfitting dress. I'd probably just gone out for a night on the town with the girls, or maybe I'd even cut loose for an evening and went back to some guy's place.

Then I stumble through the door at 4 in the morning, my hair a tangled mess and black tears streaked down my cheeks. The dress that had molded itself to my body so well only hours before was now oddly loose and ill-fitting, ripped in places and stained in others. My stockings are in tatters, with lines of something white trickling down my thigh. Something had snapped the heel of one of my cute stilettos, and the cute Kate Spade purse I'd gone out with is nowhere to be seen - you can only imagine what might've happened to my phone, wallet, ID, credit cards, everything.

It takes the better part of an hour of consolation and crying for you to get a better picture of what had happened. Someone had slipped something in my drink sometime in the night, and everything after that was a hazy, glassy nightmare. I remember a bed, a gag, a cock, and all of a sudden I'm stumbling out of an alleyway with a pain between my legs and a lifetime of trauma ahead of me. I might've been perfect before, but I'm completely unprepared for what happens next. My eyes are wide and bright with tears, locked onto yours as I wait for you to say something. Anything. A recommendation to go to the police, a suggestion for a therapist you know, words of comfort, of consolation.

"Well," you finally say, "it's not like you didn't deserve it."