When she was a kid, I remember reading her favorite book before she went to sleep: If I Lived Alone. For those who don’t know, or can’t figure out the context of the children’s book through the title, it’s about a fucker who’s 10 and lives alone. Or dreams about living alone. But she would miss her dad’s “super-duper flip flop flapjacks” if she lived alone. So she’s in a conundrum.
Something like that.
Anyway, I’m living that book. I’m living alone. So is my sister, but that’s not important. What’s important is that it can get lonely living in a studio apartment in a big city.
You Might Be Lonely If…
You stay on the toilet after you flush so the back-splash from the flush hits your butt and cleans it like a cheap bidet. It reminds you of that one time your girlfriend was willing to eat you out. What a woman; what a year.
You walk under low-hanging tree branches just to feel something rub your head, like your dad’s hands full of love giving you a solid noogie.
You start to talk to the closest animate object while eating lunch. And it’s your guitar.
You look for a post to scratch your back because you don’t trust anyone to scratch your back because you might have to scratch theirs. In bed. And you don’t want that.
You swipe right on Tinder, but never talk to your matches, only counting the total number of people who had the strength to swipe right on your own profile.
You hold your own hands while crossing the street.
After watching hours of TV shows on Netflix, you realize the dog off Frasier is your best friend.
The only interaction you ever have is with baristas in coffee shops. Oh, and homeless people who are talking to themselves. So you jump into their conversations. Practicing for Thanksgiving dinner, where you have to deal with your crazy uncle.
You’re excited to go to the dentist just for the social interaction with the hygienists.
Your bed has an outline of your prone body. Probably sweat and shit particles.
Your left hand cries for help because he doesn’t want to shake hands with your penis anymore. (Or right hand, depending on the season and which way the moon is facing.)
A porn site is ranked third in your “Most Websites Visited In the Last Week” rankings, right after YouTube and a different porn site.
You’ve memorized all the porn star’s names — and moves.
You have three chairs but only use two: one for reading, and the other for contemplating why you’re always lonely.
You have to check yourself out in front of an office building with nice reflective windows because your apartment doesn’t have a floor-to-ceiling mirror. How can you tell if those shoes match the outfit? Speaking of shoes…
You only wear sandals because they’re easier to put on and you don’t care about strangers looking at your ugly ass toenails. And you don’t have to ask someone to help you tie your shoes if you have sandals.
You start to wonder what happened to restaurants and places of businesses that are named after people, like Keith’s or Pablo’s or Jimmy John’s. Maybe they can be your friend.
You want to get sick, just to see a compassion-less doctor acknowledge your presence in the world.
You look for ways to get run over, just for the few seconds of interaction with another human being. Hopefully a hot EMT worker shows up and Wendy Peppercorns you.
You stop to smell the roses, and you don’t realize they’re petunias because no one is there to correct you.
You ask Google for help because you don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the Whole Foods employee when you ask what to get when you go poo-poo too often and want to “clog your system.”
You don’t have a female best friend that will go to the bathroom with you.
You grow a beard for entertainment. Biting on the mustache, rubbing the entire beard like a lady friend would after a couple of drinks.
You wash dishes in the summer to act like you’re in a swimming pool, since that’s the closest you’ll ever get to water.
You search for “dinner recipes for 1” on Google and it recommends “how to survive in the wild.”