I’m writing this blog post from my new apartment from Collegetown. I have work early tomorrow. But I can’t sleep due to a colorful phone call I just received from a friend asking me sex questions. I of course answered all of them wisely and earnestly. Some inquiries into my own personal history may have garnered some responses that were a bit over the caller’s drunken head, but that’s not my fault. What fucking philistine doesn’t know what wheelbarrow is anyway?

Living on my own is pretty interesting. I get a lot of solitude (which I FUCKING LOVE). I never understand people who get itchy when they aren’t yaking their lips off about nothing. I couldn’t live without those rare moments when I don’t worry about what the person next to me is thinking of me. ‘Are these shoes too gaudy?’ ‘Does he think I’m funny?’ All of that bullshit spot light effect goes away when you’re on your own. Want to take your pants off because its hot? ..Go ahead. Want to look at disgusting tentacle hentai porn? ..Enjoy. You can really let loose and be the person instead of the mask. That’s what I love about being an introvert.

But the hardest part of living on my own is cooking. You see, I don’t have a car, and getting to Wegman’s is a 40 minute bus ride with a transfer. ugh. At least I’m a good cook. I had sautéed mushrooms, bread, and camembert for dinner tonight. But, each piece of food I currently own has become a precious commodity. The way a hapless deserted traveler in the desert eyes his last drops of water is how I treat my bananas. This time in my life is reminiscent of my freshman year of high school when I didn’t eat dinner. Of course, I wouldn’t mind being my freshman dress size, but I like having the marginally more stable confidence that the years have given me.

My high school seem such a strange shadow compared to my current reality. I smoked, I was 115 pounds, I didn’t care about school or college at all, and I was obsessed with boys. I doodled the name of my crush, I sketched him and I fantasized about him holding me in his arms. Romance was so mystical then. I can’t even imagine being like that now. In my pre-Herman days, I was in control of my relationships. Boys were doodling my name, NOT the other way around. Boys liked me more than I liked them, and we all knew it. Playing hard to get kills the fun of the chase, but it is a fantastic ego booster – even when you are fully aware the boys fighting for your utterly aloof hand are not very high quality.

Then Herman came along. I had to ask him for his number via facebook chat. I had to beg him multiple times to hang out with me. I had to scold him after our second date for not kissing me, just to have him run back to my room to halt my complaining tongue with the caress of his own. And that’s history!

The Best part of living on my own is that I can more successfully hide my online shopping addiction. By the way, these?

Or these?

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One Response to Wheelbarrow

  1. twindaddy says:

    You’re a very good writer. I don’t know what your major is, but have you considered writing?

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