I don’t live with anyone in a house anymore. In fact, I made the seemingly brave—arguably stupid—choice of living all by lonesome in a teeny tiny studio apartment. And sometimes it really does get lonely. On weekends, I’ve noticed I jump from my computer to my phone to my computer and back again. I cycle through my go-to websites as if I can reasonably expect something to have changed within the last ten minutes. But for the most part, I enjoy it—living alone, that is. While living with my friends during ’rona, I got out of the habit of going grocery shopping. So now my fridge is embarrassingly empty, confirming the single bachelor trope of my many forefathers. I haven’t shopped in over three weeks now, somehow living off of food provided from work and leftovers from disastrous first (and last) dates.
And yet, I’m not sure if I could ever go back to living with someone again. I like that regal feeling that wells up in my chest as I strut from my shower into my kitchen with my impossibly white ass shining bright like two full moons.
But I also miss living with friends. Friends who I can complain to when I come home from a shitty commute from a day at work where I can honestly say that I did not give a singly iota of my brainpower or an ounce of my effort. I miss having people to watch TV with, or movies, or even sports. And no, I can’t get a cat—it’s against my lease.