Too much stuff.

Today I am cleaning. Attempting to unclutter my closet-- dismantling the piles and boxes of crazy things that I should have never piled or boxed up in the first place. Endless wires and cables. And batteries. So many random batteries.

Oh. I'm also going through a drawer of old love letters. Scanning the words until I remember what it was about, reading the last sentence a couple times. Then with bitter hands and a nostalgic sigh, I make each page as small as I can file them away into the trash bag. I suppose if it was going to be a pleasant experience I'd have done it much sooner.

I don't want to talk to anyone today, and everyone keeps calling. I just want to get this done.

Mi casa es su casa.

I am going to have a roommate again. Its been over a year now that I’ve lived alone. In fact, not counting the 6 months I lived in my dad’s house (cause I don’t remember a whole lot of that time, and I rarely saw him) I’ve been living by myself since August of 2003.

I am one of those people who can do that. Actually, for some time I was under the impression that anyone could do that. Yeah, not so much. As I get older, and meet more new people, I see that only a minority of people can handle living alone and an even smaller number choose to. Sometimes it seems its financially driven-- roommates make rent cheaper usually. Sometimes it seems like a genuine desire to live in an environment with constant activity. Sometimes, and this is what kills me, its codependence. When a person becomes so uncomfortable being alone that they will go to great lengths (and make dumb decisions) to never find themselves without another person close by. I don’t trust people who can’t be alone. Something about that mentality never seems to sit well with me. I take pride in being able to live happily and productively by myself. The artistic side of me thrives off of it, and I am a much calmer person than I once was.

On the other hand, too much of any good thing can be bad. I’ve already mentioned the monetary cost of solitude-- which is unfortunate, to say the least-- but there is also the risk of loneliness and social anxiety which can be amplified by living alone. Luckily, I have a job that requires me to be very social, and I am not without a few really great friends, so I rarely feel completely alone. It has been shown, however, that the intimate experience of living with another person can have a signifigantly positive effect on improving communication and a variety of other necessary social skills.

So, it’s a slippery slope. There are, obviously, other ups and downs to this argument but most are petty and insignificant. Its about being able to adjust to, and function in, either situation. Personally, I think I have a decent amount of living-alone-time under my belt.

Lets switch it up a bit now, shall we?

Weakness.

Hello.

You know what I would like? A fucking rain storm. Yeah, the sunshine is great and all but in this city of asphalt and cars, the incessant heat comes as kind of a kick in the nuts. Where’s a desert monsoon when you need one? Oh yeah… not here.

So I’m in the middle of my first week of detoxification and I’m only slightly bitter (see above). Those little things like, “Hey, it’s a holiday and everyone else seems to be enjoying a nice cold beer, but wait, no, not nick.” Not drinking is a lot less fun than it would seem. Plus I’ve already slipped up a bit when Carlos took me to a rad little bar down on the pier in Redondo. Apparently I HAD to order some red drink which is what you go there for, and far be it from me to disrespect that fine establishment and its signature drinks. No cigarettes or pot though. And no soda (with the exception of some red bull) or fried foods.

See. Are you reading this? I am subtly convincing myself to give up the alcohol part of my hiatus. Yep. I am weak. I’m going to the 7-11 and buying some beer. Then I guess I’m going to hell.

Sigh.