Queen of the Bungalow.

For the most part, I really enjoy living alone: I can talk to the cat in funny voices and no one looks at me oddly. I can make pasta and eat it directly from the pot I made it in, while standing over the sink. I can let all my weird little quirks flourish, because no one is around to squash them.

There are two instances in which living alone is less than desirable....

1. No one is around to hold open a garbage bag when you're trying to dispose of 17 day old meat that was hanging out in the back of the refridgerator. You'll end up trying to hold the bag open with one hand and heaving the fridge-dweller in, hoping that nothing will splash the parts of the bag that you'll have to touch to tie it up. ugh.

2. If you're fiddling around with the fuse box in the basement, trying to figure out which fuse connects to which part of the house, there will be no one upstairs that you can yell to as you're flicking fuses on and off. This will cause you to run up and down the basement stairs 47 times, checking what light went off when which fuse was reset.

There are many more positives than negatives to living alone, although last night as I was trying to heave a meatloaf of undetermined age into a flimsy garbage bag by myself, it really made me reconsider things for a minute. But that doubt went away as Dolemite slinked by and i called him "Doodlebug" in a squeaky, fake-mouse voice.

Note to self: Label fuses in fusebox.