My roommate just got back from nearly a one month long business trip/vacation combo.
I have to start wearing fucking pants again. Ugh.
I love my place of inhabitance but damnit if I didn’t love it more when I was the sole occupant. Which is not to say I don’t love my roommate. He’s a fantastic guy and we’ve gotten along perfectly for five years of close quarter living, late night after parties and uncomfortable hello’s to strange women scurrying to the bathroom wrapped in wrinkled too big tee shirts.
One month is the longest I’ve ever lived on my own, and it proved to be eye opening. I’ve come to find that all my joking about hanging out naked or in my underwear is simply not joking at all. I really do prefer to the birthday suit. Everything except cooking is better naked.
It’s a tough decision when you realize that you’d be better off living by yourself. The insane monetary requirement of doing so in New York is the best crutch for not making that jump. Most people I know go from living with platonic roommates to living with romantic roommates to making babies and never knowing what it’s like to handle shit on their own.
As of right now, it looks like 2009 ought to be the year I finally move into my fortress of solitude, Superman briefs and all.