On Sunday my roommate departed for a three week trip to Tucson, some doctor-y thing he had to do that involved being a doctor. He left me in an empty home, putting me in charge of six houseplants and a fish.
He’ll be lucky if he comes back to anything alive. I’ll probably be dead on the kitchen floor since he left without feeding me. So rude of him.
So far the question everybody has asked is “Have you run around the place naked yet?”
Actually… no. I haven’t.
Mostly I’ve been listening to loud music and watching Bob’s Burgers on Netflix (a show which has encouraged
Maybe I’m a private prude, maybe it’s because our place has a million windows that would need to have the blinds closed before I could pull off such an open endeavor, or maybe my roommate’s absence just hasn’t driven me to drink yet, so I haven’t lowered my inhibitions enough to savor the opportunity to strip naked in my own home.
And there’s something funny and kind of curious about that. I’ll publicize an embarrassing, drunken romp with a stranger or the casual drug abuse that took place in college, but I have no interest going bare in seclusion and privacy.
I expose the private moments of my life to the world but refuse to turn the mirror on myself.
My lesbian ex-girlfriend says I should lounge around naked as some bold declaration of self-acceptance, but I still probably won’t do it.
That fish has always been kind of a voyeur.