Tuesday, July 24, 2007
The Pleasures of Solitude
It turns out there are a lot of things I like about living alone, even if it's only for a week. I can walk out to the kitchen in the morning and get my Fruity Pebbles without having to worry about my state of undress, and there's no one around to give me crap about watching The Hills. I can use the washing machine whenever I feel like it, even if I just decide to wash, like, a single pair of socks or something. Oh, and I can play my music loud without the slightest sense of guilt. Chet Baker is really meant to be blasted, let me tell you.
The best thing, though, is that I can indulge myself in not being a morning person. Generally I spend the first half hour or so of the day hating the world for forcing me to be awake and wanting to gnaw the fingers off of anyone who so much as says hello to me. Once in grade school I threw a Pop Tart at my mother for attempting early morning small talk. But without a roommate, I can allow my sociopathic impulses to go unchecked, at least until I reach the train station. (And even then, I sometimes find myself harboring perhaps just a bit too much resentment against the Red Eye distributor.) Sometimes it's fun to be cranky.
At this rate, I'll be boiling squirrel skulls and firing a bb gun off the front porch by the time my sister moves in.
It turns out there are a lot of things I like about living alone, even if it's only for a week. I can walk out to the kitchen in the morning and get my Fruity Pebbles without having to worry about my state of undress, and there's no one around to give me crap about watching The Hills. I can use the washing machine whenever I feel like it, even if I just decide to wash, like, a single pair of socks or something. Oh, and I can play my music loud without the slightest sense of guilt. Chet Baker is really meant to be blasted, let me tell you.
The best thing, though, is that I can indulge myself in not being a morning person. Generally I spend the first half hour or so of the day hating the world for forcing me to be awake and wanting to gnaw the fingers off of anyone who so much as says hello to me. Once in grade school I threw a Pop Tart at my mother for attempting early morning small talk. But without a roommate, I can allow my sociopathic impulses to go unchecked, at least until I reach the train station. (And even then, I sometimes find myself harboring perhaps just a bit too much resentment against the Red Eye distributor.) Sometimes it's fun to be cranky.
At this rate, I'll be boiling squirrel skulls and firing a bb gun off the front porch by the time my sister moves in.
