There were times last year when I thought I'd rather be homeless than deal with the housing situation I had made for myself.

I didn't realize there was a deadline for applying for a single. I didn't realize there was a deadline for applying for a room in Eastview. And I certainly didn't realize that I was suddenly more clueless as a junior than I was as a freshman.

After spending two years living in Atherton Hall's basement-level Atlas House, I found myself in a room on the third floor, paired with a kid who my sources told me was angling to be a resident assistant.

I would be his fallback, the stooge he'd settle for living with if he didn't get the job. Needless to say, I was far from thrilled.

But he got the job, and eLiving quickly told me I'd have a new roommate assigned post-haste. Sure enough, I did -- a Commonwealth Campus student at University Park for the first time.

My Facebook interests include "rocky beaches," "frozen peas," "newspapers" and "European cities." His were simpler -- "women," "wrestling" and "working out."

There was no sugarcoating it. My hot mess of a housing plan was nothing short of a debacle.

I began to brainstorm which friend's room would be best to practically live in and also plan out which weekends I could escape and head back to New York without sacrificing my parents' sanity -- or my own.

But then Facebook told me one fateful day in May that Andrew and Reagan, two of my best friends here at Penn State, were seeking a third roommate for their little white house over on North Allen Street.

And after I told Housing and Food Services my sob story -- replete with a few pitiful details I'd rather keep to myself -- they were more than willing to release me from my housing contract of horrors.

This column isn't meant to rub my success in the faces of all those Penn Staters still searching for a cheap-enough downtown apartment or the right on-campus living option.

It's meant to make it known that there is light at the end of even the darkest housing tunnel.

I've always been one for fairy tales.

My favorite Disney princess is the bookish Belle, and I spent most of my 11th year desperately praying for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to hurry up and send me my acceptance letter.

The weird thing with North Allen Street is that, for so long, a happy ending just seemed so far out of the question.

I'm not living in a tiny Atherton Hall room, my posters competing for space with some random other's.

I have my own room -- the little blue one above the garage -- in a perfect white house with green shutters and a deliciously overgrown backyard.

I have a tiny side porch with patio chairs that remind me of my grandfather and a stained-glass cross that makes us -- a Jew and two non-believers -- giggle every time we see it.

I have two fantastic roommates who recognize the demands of my Collegian schedule and do fantastic roommate things, like picking me up Wegman's hummus and transforming our once-dank basement -- it once made the outside of my nose spontaneously bleed -- into a bumping dance spot, painted a deep, sexy red.

Most of all, I have a house that is closer and closer to feeling like a home.

Househunters, don't fret -- happenstance happens. Take stock of all the housing options on and off campus, and you'll find your happy ending, too.