Flashback: On Living Alone

This is something I wrote in November 2014, as a reaction to a long-time-coming separation between myself and the person I thought would be my best friend forever. It’s a long story not worth wasting time for, and the summary is that in the summer of 2015 I started renting my own apartment for the first time in my life. The enclosed list was my bitter but oddly optimistic outlook on the future, from that time. I’ve gone back to revisit those thoughts this year, with two apartments under my belt.


What I Have to Gain From Living Alone

  • Reign over every inch of the house. Yaaaaas. This one definitely panned out.
  • Government over electricity and plumbing usage. THIS. SO. MUCH. Nothing gets left plugged in, no one is allowed to choose the temperature, and I don’t even heat the place in winter time. It’s awesome. I also rather enjoy only having to smell my own shit.
  • A sink full of dirty dishes and no fucks to give. All day, everyday. I have literally paid other people to clean my kitchen.
  • A fridge and pantry full of organic, whole, vegan foods. No more lunchmeat and cheese sticks.
  • My own furniture. Ha, I barely have furniture. I bought a folding picnic table for my living room.
  • My own dishes, cookware, and cutlery. I only just bought a knife set and all my “Tupperware” is reused hummus containers. Lawl.
  • A place for everything, and everything in a place. My way.
  • A living room full of the stuff I just don’t fuckin’ feel like storing in my room. EVERY ROOM IS MY ROOM.
  • Black clothes and no cat hair. Black cat!
  • Furniture and no cat hair. Eh…
  • Towels and no cat hair. Meh…
  • Electronics and no cat hair. Oops.
  • A cat hair free existence. Nope.
  • A lint roller free existence. Nah.
  • My nail polish all over the coffee table. Check!
  • My bike propped against a different wall every day of the week. Revision: It gets its own wall.
  • A mailbox full of mail and no obligation to check it. I forget I have a mailbox.
  • A spare key for my ex/buddy, for emergencies. And Daniel, and Natasha, and Melody…
  • A tray of decorative stones by the door where motherfuckers put their shoes. I still haven’t done this! The space by my front door is all laminate though, so it works out.
  • Never again a whiff of cigarette smoke in my smoke-free house. This still annoys me when Melody visits.
  • Naked time, all the time. YAS.
  • No cat box smell. Baking soda.
  • No cat cat box litter. Corn cob litter!
  • No fucking cat box. He’s gotta shit somewhere!
  • My friends over. And over. And over again. I don’t like company actually.
  • A carefully sectioned off “safe space” for the dogs, so they don’t have to be kenneled while I’m not home. I have carpet now, so they wear weenie wraps.
  • My TV. Just mine. Fuck off, I’m watching Buffy. And over and over and over again.
  • No fucking lights left on. THIS.
  • Bills paid on time, every time. Every time.
  • One less contact in my phone. She doesn’t even know my new number, I engineered it that way.
  • One less compulsion to keep peace. Yes.
  • One less thing. Many more less.
  • One more thing. Many, many more.
  • EVERYTHING. All of it.

My independence. Mine.


About RicoChey

I'm just an unmarried, childless, thirty-something high school dropout with big ideas and a small attention span. Weave drunkenly behind me as I meander through my own life: a winding path of musings on life, relationships, food, the few politics I can stomach discussing, and probably really dumb stuff like the ratio of Sex and the City episodes wherein Carrie does and does not appear to be wearing extensions.
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