Here’s a fun tale from Will’s former roommate, the fabulous AMY BLAIR
I met Will Leitch when he responded to my Roommate Wanted ad on craigslist. He showed up carrying a briefcase, curtsied, and called me ma’am. When considering all the possible candidates, my roommate and I decided to go with Will for one reason. He wasn’t hot like the other dude who wanted the room, so we knew we wouldn’t fight over him. We asked him to move in with us a few days before September 11, 2001.
After we offered him the room we found out that he was currently sharing an apartment with a known pornographer on the Upper East Side. He didn’t have a bedroom, but rather, a curtained-off section of the guy’s living room. This set off our pervert radar, but we decided to let it slide. What really creeped us out was that on move-in day he had the following items: a box of CDs, a box of books, one suitcase, a litter box, and his cat. (Ed. Note: He owned a cat? Jesus.) He had no furniture whatsoever, not even a bed. When we questioned him about it, he said that he didn’t need a bed. He was just a humble, unassuming Midwesterner who didn’t need fancy things like a mattress, or, say, a pillow. He was perfectly content sleeping on the hardwood floor with nothing more than a blanket and his cat. Suffice it to say, we FREAKED.
Over the course of our living together, Will got a bed and eventually we became friends. But one thing always grossed me out. For whatever horrendous reason, Will decided that it would least inconvenience everyone if he kept the cat’s litter box right at the foot of his bed. Due to the fact that he has no sense of smell thanks to some mysterious childhood illness, he would regularly fail to clean it for days on end. Not only did it smell downright atrocious, but his blanket would regularly hang off the bed into the litter box. I always wondered how he convinced girls to sleep in that bed, and I attribute the fact that he did so to his being Famous Blogger Will Leitch. For some reason (that I still don’t understand) that provided him with the magical ability to convince women to sleep in a bed that was literally dipped in shit. Go figure.
Anyway, when eventually we all decided to move out, I left a week before Will did. When I came back to the apartment one afternoon to pick up some mail and other odds and ends I had left behind, I used the bathroom. There, sitting next to the toilet, was my Victoria’s Secret catalog, crumpled and well-used. And you know what was even more disturbing than the revelation that my humble, unassuming Midwestern roommate had been masturbating with my Victoria’s Secret catalog in my absence? It was the fact that it wasn’t open to any of the pages of push up bras or skimpy lingerie, but rather, to the one-piece swimsuits in the back. The moral of this story? Girls, now you know: if you want to get into that shit-dipped bed of Will’s, forget the lacy bras and panties. The secret to Will’s heart is none other than a trashy one-piece bathing suit. Thank me later, ladies.