In my life, I've had a wide variety of living arrangements. I've lived in shared dorms, shared apartments, shared houses, and, for the last year or so, alone. Except, for the past little while, it hasn't been so alone. In October, my parents came and stayed. (For a month. While I was studying for my comp exam. And coerced me to go on weekend trips to Toronto. While I was studying for my comp exam. And planned trips to New York. While I was studying for my comp exam. Sigh. PS. Thanks for the free printer. Love, your ingrate son.) At the end of October, I got a roommate, so I was cohabiting for November. And in December, I went back to Saskatchewan and lived with my brother for a month. (He loved that.) So I essentially had three months where I could be guaranteed a conversation with someone, at some point, during the day.
And then I come back here. No parents, no brother, and the roommate's moved out. And suddenly there's no one to talk to but the television my upstairs neighbor leaves on after he goes to work every day. On an early season of 30 Rock, Liz Lemon gets in a conversation with another character (Actually, it's woman who played the lawyer from Law and Order, playing here a lesbian businesswoman that Jack set up on a blind date with Liz in his mistaken notion that Liz was also a lesbian. That's not strictly relevant to the matter at hand, but I thought it important to establish my 30 Rock IQ.)about living alone. Specifically, they ponder the question: if I slip in the tub and die, how long will it be until someone finds my body? Of course, it would be needlessly morbid to speculate on my own deathtime slippage factor. Let's just say there hopefully won't be any milk in the fridge.
Fatal accidents aside, there are, of course, advantages to living alone. The problem is, it's hard to tell most of them from disadvantages. Example: pants are optional. Showers are optional. 24 hour Arrested Development marathons can be started at 3:00 am. Dishes and laundry can be done when convenient. (Though to save on detergent, it is cost-effective to wear/use every dish/piece of clothing at least twice before washing.) Cereal can be an anytime meal.
And so on and so forth. It's a slippery slope into madness and social degeneration that ends in writing Star Trek fan fiction fan fiction. ("Mild-mannered George Georgeson cracked his knuckles and began typing the climactic conclusion of his seventeen part epic on the flora of Vulcan. There came a knock on the door. 'Pizza delivery!' 'But I didn't order any pizza,' mused the portly protagonist...")
The solution? Maybe I need a cat. Because who ever heard of a crazy shut-in who keeps cats?