Well, I've been living on my own for six months now, and although I should feel pleased about being halfway to my goal of doing my own thing for a year, it's not all it's cracked up to be.
I've decided I just don't like being alone this much. There are definitely advantages, like eating what I want, when I want, and turning up the stereo at midnight, if I happen to feel like it, but really, I prefer to have people around. It's nice to have someone to come home to, even if it's just a roommate. I have fond memories of the Pineapple and my New West peeps.
It doesn't help to avoid thoughts of eternal solitude when the view from my kitchen window is of a funeral home across the street that reminds me every morning of my inevitable demise, and stark truth of my soul's essential solitude. "In the end, we're all alone," is what that funeral home tells me while I stand at the window drinking my smoothie. To which I reply, "Thanks. Have a nice day." And then I go to work.
I think having a cat would make a big difference. Hell, having a couch would make a big difference. Maybe that's the real issue. My apartment is stoically furnished. And my house plant, the well-loved Jennifer Gray, finally gave up the ghost this week, leaving me the sole life form to inhabit my home (unless you count the bacteria quietly taking over the dark corners under the sink I don't see when I do get round to cleaning). I need more than that.
Six months to go to fulfill my goal of being alone and learning to be okay with the idea. I'll see if I can learn to be zen about it, but some days I just wish I had crazy roommates to make me wish I had my own place.