I really do revel in being alone. Today, I drove my brother to school, and it was only when he had gotten out, his backpack slung affectedly on one shoulder, puff-puffs of breath in the cold air marking his short trek to the warmth of the school, that I sort of relaxed, in a weird way. All the way home, I sang to myself and carried on one-sided commentary on whatever I pleased. It’s not that I’m crazy; I just enjoy the sound of my own voice.

I had the house to myself when I got home, so I changed into sweats, poured myself a glass of wine, and masturbated. If you’re into memes, I was essentially the embodiment of Foul Bachelorette Frog.

But that’s not all, oh no. I gave a great big F-U to all the neat little housework tasks I had planned for myself, as well as the run I had lukewarmly considered last night. I fucked around on the internet, ate a really weird lunch, and took a 3-hour long nap. I did, however, do the 300 movie abs workout I found on one of my favorite fitness blogs, Fitspoholic Barbie!

Now, don’t get too disgusted at this revolting description. This is hardly me every day, but one commonality of most of my days is the intensely satisfying sensation of being alone. Don’t get me wrong– when I psych myself up to go out, I have a great time. I enjoy getting all spruced up and seeing the sights. I don’t have social anxiety (I’m not a bog fan of public speaking, but hey, that’s life). However, something in my soul will always delight in walking around the house in my underwear or reading on the toilet, even when I’m finished going. A part of me will always celebrate spending hours on a meal that only I will ever see or consume. And somewhere down deep I will always get a warm rush of joy at the feeling of being able to go braless all day, scratching my boobs whenever and wherever I damn well please.

You may call it gross; you may call it antisocial. I call it freedom.

Cheers,
Un-Glib