But You Won't Find Any of That Here

For the four years I lived in Muncie, I had roommates. It made sense - that's what you're supposed to do in college, right? I shared tiny dorm rooms for my first two years before moving into a ridiculous apartment with a rotating roster of roommates (oooh - alliteration!). We each had our own bedrooms and bathrooms, but that didn't ease the tensions that come from personalities that mix about as well as vinegar and baking soda.

Like most people, I don't like being told what to do. It's not that I have an authority problem - I'm fine with certain people (my boss, my mom) giving instructions, but I'm just way not cool taking orders from someone that I live with by choice. I got sick of a world where leaving the coffee maker off, but plugged in was a major offense and cooking dinner for friends was almost inexcusable.

When I moved to Memphis, living with people wasn't even an option. I just didn't have the patience for it any more. So now, I live alone in an apartment that sometimes feels too big for just the one of me, but would feel entirely too crowded if there were two.

And somehow, even though I didn't intend to, I feel like I'm constantly an anecdote in "Sex and the Single Girl" or some other book about the brave women who chose to live by themselves.

Tonight, for example, I got home and did the dishes. Then I sat at the kitchen table in my underwear, ate some left over chocolate peanut butter cake, and read Television Without Pity recaps of "Big Love".

Sure, sometimes it's kind of lonely. After days like today, I wish I had someone to come home to, someone who would let me properly vent. And there are nights like last night, when all I want to do is get the damn lid off of the tomato sauce so that I can eat some spaghetti, and it won't budge. Short of banging on it repeatedly with the butt end of a steak knife and then running hot water over it, I didn't know what to do. I was plotting what I could possibly add to the noodles that were almost finished in the event that the jar wouldn't open. Then I thought about smashing the jar, gently against the counter. I started to imagine what I would do in a desperate Survivor Man type situation, in which the only sustinance I had was a tightly sealed jar of Prego.


But despite all of that, I like living by my lonesome. Because living alone means never having to say you're sorry. It also means never having to unplug the coffee maker.


In matters unrelated, I'll be in Muncie from late Friday night through earlyish Monday morning. I'm DJing at Village Green Records on Saturday night, and you should come out. You have no idea how much fun we'll have.

meet me by the vending machine,
Kerry