Something magical is happening this week. Something that I haven’t experienced since moving into this cavernous duplex with my lovely roommates. No, it’s not sex. My roommates have nothing to do with the lack of that in my life, sadly. It’s alone time. Alone-alone-alone-alone (as it echoes across the empty space). Ariel is away on a week-long babysitting job and Jasmine is working overnights at her job so that means I’m all by myself until Thursday. I’m free to act as though I still live alone and that means several things:
First, a love affair with my electric blanket. I refuse to wear pants when going solo at home (yes, I realize that sounds masturbatory). It’s freezing in this old, drafty house but that won’t stop me. No roommates means no pants and I must stand strong. My electric blanket is there to offer solace and toasty warm knees and it doesn’t force me to make a decision about where to rest a waistband. Under the floppy belly? No. Over is surely better. Putting a waistband over your belly fat all but makes it disappear (into an old lady’s “fupa”). My electric blanket just hangs out over my thighs and gently warms me like I pretend all that extra hair on my legs does.
Second, I barely leave my cave of a bedroom. It’s a complete disaster area save for maybe the two foot area immediately surrounding the door. I don’t spend a ton of time in there when my roommates are home because I run the risk of them coming to my door in search of my company or advice and having people in my hoarder-bedroom makes me uncomfortable. Before you recoil in horror, just know that the hoarder-status mainly speaks to clothes and shoes. I don’t think I’ve hung up a clothing item since the weekend I moved in. There are baskets with clean clothes, baskets with laundry, jeans and tights strewn about the floor and an entire wall stacked with boxes I haven’t unpacked since I moved in at the beginning of August. I’d love to pretend they’re still there as a result of some sort of failure to commit to this house or the roommates, but in truth I just don’t feel like unpacking them. I haven’t needed anything in there yet, so what’s my motivation? Aside from not looking like an insane person. Since nobody is here to wander into my physical manifestation of mental unrest, I feel completely comfortable lounging in bed with Netflix and eating Cookie Butter out of the jar with my finger (I did that last night).
There are many other things that I would do if I were alone all the time that I don’t do when my roommates are here. I use the bathroom with the door open, sing the entire RENT soundtrack loudly in the shower, see how far I can slide on the floor of the second living room and automatically think every noise I hear is a Raderer. Which is a rapist/murderer, of course.
I made the mistake of watching “The Conjuring” the other day and although I’m not religious and don’t believe that there was an epidemic of demons taking hold of really ugly families in the 70s, the shock-cuts and sheer creepiness sort of got under my skin. I’m a little on edge and this is an old house. Old houses make noises and so do my neighbors when they do ridiculous things like walk softly from room to room. I can hear it. And I think it’s trying to kill me or eat my soul. Since I know for sure it’s not the clip-clop of high heels in the hallway, and both of my cats are sitting at my feet, I’m obviously going to be radered before Thursday.
I’ll use this as an opportunity to say my goodbyes. Please keep the image of my hoarder-bedroom and pantsless body in your hearts forever.
Someone please clear my browser history. I was home alone, after all.