Most of the time

I love living alone. I love leaving dirty dishes in the sink and waiting until the next morning, while coffee is brewing, to finally wash them. I love hogging the computer or the television remote and going to bed at 10:30 or 12:30. I love sitting in the middle of the floor with a gigantic stack of papers, "sorting" them by creating more stacks of papers around me so that, when I stand, the room looks like a total disaster, even though, of course, it's totally organized in my mind. I love a great many things about living alone.

It's just sometimes, coming home after a really crappy day, feeling like I'm two inches tall and once again questioning all choices, it would be really nice to have someone there.

Ugh, ugh, ugh.