The Story So Far

I moved into a new house in March and for the first time in my life, I am the only human living with myself. I find, almost five months in, that I’m generally OK to live with, albeit a little moody and quiet sometimes. I usually keep the same hours I like to keep, which is helpful.

I’m good, for the most part, at taking out the recycling. I’d give myself a solid B+ on that. I’d like it if I were a little more on top of the dishes, but even with that, it’s been better than I thought it would be when I agreed to move in with me. I’m also on top of the vacuuming and laundry, which is really nice to come home to, so props* to me for that.

My taste in music aligns really closely with my own, thank gosh, and better still, I inevitably play it exactly when I’m in the mood for it.

I find I’m more polite than I’d assumed I was. So much so, I’ve apologized on several occasions to inanimate objects, like when I said “Oh, I’m sorry” to the fridge (its full name is refrigerator, but I like to think we have that kind of relationship) when I closed the door too hard. Or when I freely admitted, “My bad!” aloud to my washing machine for not pressing the “start” button.

Both of these events, and several more like them, actually happened.

This Isn’t a Bad Thing, Per Se. It’s Not a Thing at All, Really.

I also realize that most of my new neighbors would likely describe me the way neighbors of serial killers inevitably describe them: “Nice guy, friendly, generally kept to himself.” I try not to worry about that too much, because I think overall I share very few other traits normally associated with serial killers. Almost none, virtually. I’ll just say this: I don’t for one second think I’m likely living with a serial killer and I’m in a good position to know.

OK, now we’re all starting to think maybe I’m sounding a little defensive about not being a serial killer. Like I seem a little too eager to assert that I’m not. Although, I want to reiterate, one last time, I’m 99.9% convinced I’m not. And even that .01% is because, let’s be honest, you can never know, I mean like, KNOW know 100%. Very few people, if you notice, who work with or lived around serial killers, tell reporters, “Oh yeah. Totally saw that. We all did.”

Let’s Move On

I’ve learned I apparently enjoy growing flowers more than I’d thought I would. I wouldn’t have pegged me as that kind of guy. But hey, you never really know someone until you live with them.

Things to Work On

It’s not perfect, mind you. I am constantly unable to find where I’ve put the tv remote, and when I ask where I might have left it, inevitably I can’t seem to remember. Moreover, I sound a little annoyed at the question. That’s a bit grating.

Also, I have too many plates and drinking glasses. Like, to the point where it’s inconvenient to store them all. Yet, despite telling myself I need to get rid of some and even agreeing many aren’t even nice, I never seem to get around to it. I’m always conveniently tied up with something else. That’s going to eventually become a thing if I don’t shape up.

Ditto my rude habit of eating the last of something I’ve been saving for later. I do that a lot, and I don’t get why I don’t get how disrespectful that is.

I’ve recently developed a disconcerting habit of thinking I need to assert I’m not a serial killer. That’s weird, right? I mean, it’s not just me? Well, it IS just me, that’s the point of this post, but I mean, why would I even feel like I’d need to establish that? Its a bit disquieting.

I’ve also learned that any kitchen is an eat-in kitchen if you’re willing to stand, although that’s more a general observation than being about me. And although it’s not an especially funny observation, I chuckled politely when I made it, because it’s little gestures like that which help grease the gears of domestic life.

Overall Conclusion Five Months In:

I’ve also found myself quite lonely at times, and living alone really drives home the basic existential dilemma of being with oneself from cradle to grave. But I’ve also found that loneliness is sometimes a good teacher, and that I sometimes, although not as often I aspire to be, am decent student. Still, I haven’t given up on the idea I can improve on that.

Now, if I could just get me to do something about organizing my basement. Just for normal stuff, of course. Nothing nefarious.

* there is an age past which the use of the word “props” becomes, at best, a little off putting. I’m not sure what age that is, but I think I’ve just shown that, whatever age that is, I have passed it.