One of the joys of collegiate life is the acquisition of a roof under which to live. Whether in the dorms, an apartment, a house or the parental (or guardian) units’ house, there comes a time when everyone has to make decisions about with whom they live.

Even before moving out, the stress of living with people can reach epic heights. Roommate issues — good, bad or hideous — are so prevalent that sharing any of my own would just be redundant. If you’re clueless as to what I allude, ask a friend about their roommates and sit back. Ask if popcorn is appropriate because in many cases, it is.

For some, communal living is excellent; a friend recently updated her Facebook status to “Caroline is having oatmeal time with her roommate lol” while another wrote, “Chris is studying with his roomie.” They made me nauseous. I gained this voyeuristic knowledge while sitting locked in my room watching Wristcutters, a Love Story and trying to study while my housemates watched TV in the living room and made a mess in the kitchen; needless to say, we aren’t presently getting along.

For those like me, even the planet’s best people become sources of angst and displeasure when living quarters are shared. My saving grace is that my room is my exclusive territory, in spite of memorable breaches of this privacy. Twice, well-meaning roommates, not realizing that I was home, barged into my room late at night to feed or play with my rats. In both cases, I was watching TV in minimal sleepwear.

To prevent this — and quell my anxiety of other people destroying my excellent non-stick Bundt-cake pan and cast-iron skillets — I have decided that, though lovely people inside and out, I cannot live with these or any other people at this point in my life.

I have consequently joined the masses of apartment-hunters, spending a great deal of time in The Daily classifieds, on Craigslist and on rent.com. My life is a wash of rent fees, single bedroom or studio, neighborhood comparisons, balancing between budget, proximity to work and school, and convenience of walking, biking and bus routes.

While I have toured some very nice single-bedroom and studio apartments, the only one I really, truly liked was unavailable.

Finding “the one” just to be told to “check back every month until something opens up” is disheartening and somewhat useless.

I do have several months to play with, though, so I advise you to enjoy the luxury of a three-month span of possible move-in dates. Most others do not have this comfort.

Some of the places have been downright scary, but the biggest reject of my group was one with a farcically tiny stove that couldn’t hold a casserole dish and windows that looked out onto nothing but external walls of other oddly close apartments.

Several of my friends — among them a current roommate — are looking for September pre-leases to no avail. Open apartments are filled as soon as possible, making pre-planning and stress relief nearly impossible.

In fact, every landlord I have called to schedule apartment tours has started the phone conversation with a clear and direct statement that the apartment in question is available immediately.

This afternoon, I am touring the most advantageously situated apartment from my available choices.

I look forward to possibly becoming its occupant, given that the windows present a view of something more than walls, and that the stove is large enough to fit any of my baking ware.

I suppose that one way or another, I will find — or settle for — an apartment before becoming homeless. Should today’s unit become tonight’s jovial anecdote of failed apartment-hunting, I suppose I could always check back with the excellent — though full — complex every month until fall. Either way, hunting for apartments is dreadful. I commiserate with everyone looking for that all-important roof under which their stuff will be stored, with or without roommates.

The whole affair makes the parental residence look just that much more appealing.

Reach columnist Matt Jackson at opinion@dailyuw.com.