Living alone, I’m not counting my furry roommates because they are senile and possibly autistic rendering them incapable of normal social interactions, might be turning me into a weirdo.
You never realize what deviant behavior hides inside your body until you live by yourself and you can let your freak flag fly. When I had roommates I was tempted to do gross things, like poop with the door open or drink a beer while pooping or maybe even finish that Chinese food I was eating that is causing this poop to happen while pooping. But obviously you shame yourself and close and the door and leave your beer and kung pao chicken in the kitchen so your roommate doesn’t think you’re fucking mental. Maybe you even keep it super classy if your roommate is a one-night stand that refuses to leave and you go poop at the Starbucks down the street. With the door closed and before you order your coffee so you’re not one of “those” people. By “those” people I mean who we wish we could be.
I’ve off and on had roommates. Prior to my current situation I lived with two roommates, some people might call them my parents but I don’t really believe in titles and quantifying people that way, and it kept me in check. Sometimes I wanted to not bother brushing my teeth or washing my hair or putting on pants all day. But I didn’t want the looks of judgment when I walked by smelling like a dirty diaper with my butt cheeks hanging out. So I did the damn thing and put on pants and brushed my teeth and maybe even showered. Unless it was Sunday. Then fuck that. You can’t ask that much of me on a Sunday. I also never let dishes pile up in the sink, and threw remnants of smelly food away outside to avoid ever having it cross my roommates’ minds that my vagina smells like raw salmon, and I kept my ass cheeks under wraps during business hours.
But now that I’ve been living alone for about 8 months, shit has gone downhill. I know I’m not the only one. I’ve had a friend describe how she ordered an extra large pizza, ate half while lying in bed, went into a food coma, woke up hours later and because the pizza box was still nestled next to her, ate the rest of the pizza. Bitch ate an ENTIRE extra large pizza. Crust and all. Would she have done that with a Jax Teller look alike sleeping next to her? NOPE. She would’ve pretended she was full after 2 slices and then gone to sleep hungry after having “I wanted more pizza” hate sex with him. Because that’s how a lady acts.
Another friend told me that he can only do household chores if he’s butt naked. Vacuuming with pants on? That’s fucking stupid. Bleaching the toilet while wearing a shirt? FUCK THAT. We’re doing this how we came into the world. Naked, covered in weird white shit and blood, and possibly screaming and crying. I picture the screaming and crying coming in when a little bit of bleach splashes onto his taint during a vigorous toilet scrubbing. It’s bound to happen. It’s science.
The best is a friend who had lived alone for years. The shit that has gone down in her apartment would make a show combining Intervention and Hoarders look like a day at Disneyland. I love her but she has problems. Her boyfriend was forced to move in with her for a few months after his apartment was infested with bugs, or prostitutes, or something undesirable. She called me panicking because she knows she’s a disaster. I told her to ignore all of her instincts and don’t do ANYTHING she normally does. For example, I’ve seen this bitch pick up a piece of pizza that fell face down on cat fur covered carpet and eat it. I get it, pizza is amazing and a piece should never be wasted. However, if your cheese has fur it’s time to walk away. Things were going fine until about 2 weeks in. She ignored me and ordered pizza after I strongly warned her against it. My beautiful friend dropped a piece of pizza (clearly she has hand-eye coordination issues) which resulting in the pizza interacting with some cat litter, and she ate it. Her boyfriend claims he heard crunching. You should not even be doing this ALONE but in front of another person you’ve hit your bottom. Honestly, I don’t think either of them have recovered. He may have even just lived in his car until he could move back into his apartment. I’m not mad at him. I still have nightmares about the cat litter crunch heard round the world.
I don’t think I’m as extreme as cat litter crunch, but there are things I catch myself doing that cause me to look around my apartment to make sure no one saw me. For example, when I got a new vacuum I was really excited. This is what single and 30 years old looks like, if you weren’t aware. Splooging over a new vacuum. This is it folks. Of course vacuuming is only exciting if you’re playing 80’s Madonna tracks and singing “Like A Prayer” like it’s the only way to save your life. This is what was happening in my apartment at 11:00 a.m. on a Sunday. You don’t do this in front of other humans. You might vacuum in front of other humans. You might even sing a little bit. You DO NOT vacuum while aggressively dancing and sing so loud that someone two floors down, OUTSIDE, says “God damn” when you’re finished.
Or how about that time I put a bag of CheezIts back in the box upside down and when I grabbed them later to take to them to bed as my substitute for sexy time the bottom of the box opened up and I left a trail of CheezIts. I realized half-way back to bed what was happening and just let it be. I couldn’t be bothered with cleaning them up. No one was going to step on them. Also I might need to go back for them depending on how much I lost.
I might even now address inanimate objects in my house. It’s possible, once or twice, I’ve looked at my microwave and said, “Well ain’t that some shit?”. Or I’ve commented upon opening my refrigerator, “What in the mother fucking hell is happening?”. Now I don’t expect my microwave and refrigerator to respond to these rhetorical questions. But I am ashamed to admit that if they did, I wouldn’t even be that freaked out. I told you. It’s gotten fucking BLEAK up in this bitch.
I don’t want my future one night stands reading this to get scared. It hasn’t gotten to the point where I’m unfuckable. I would die before it came to that. Seriously. Over the cliff Thelma and Louise style with my dog and cat (because they would never want to live without me) screaming Demi Lovato’s “Cool For The Summer” at the top of my lungs without pants on. My exit from the world would be god damn magical.
For real though, I don’t have things living on my body like the hoarders. There are no cat carcasses under my sofa. In fact, my apartment is ridiculously clean because of my cleaning/Madonna/80’s songs obsession. Also I’m maintaining all the necessary orifices. I literally just had hot wax ripped off my lady parts and my ass crack yesterday. (Note: Getting waxed in 100 degrees is NOT the business. Someone better hit on me after all this effort. I’m not fucking kidding.) The transients sniff my hair when I walk by them so I know I’m also nailing it in that respect as well. A drunk guy even said to his friend, “I’d fuck her” when they stumbled by me last night. He could have been talking about my dog, but since he’s not here to ask I’m taking that win assholes.
I guess I should probably force myself into more human interactions. It probably wouldn’t ruin me to make eye contact with people in Vons instead of staring straight ahead and pretending none of this is really happening. Or grabbing a drink at a bar where other humans are instead of chugging a bottle of wine at home and harassing my poor blind cat. Then again, my neighbors probably REALLY need to hear my rendition of “Bad Blood.” Seriously, you guys. I’m KILLIN IT.