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Why Living Alone Is The Best

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I’ll give you the six main reasons, although I could give you 100.

You report to no one.

Nothing’s worse than having the shittiest day in the world and having to come home to anyone besides the TV, a bottle of wine, and a pet. Sure, sometimes it’s nice to know you have another human being waiting and looking forward to your arrival, but a lot of the time, you don’t want to deal with one more person when the day is done. When you live with another person, there is never any telling what type of mood she’ll be in, and when you’re in a terrible one, that unknowing is an instant anxiety-inducer. Is she gonna try to talk to me? Did she have a wonderful day, and now does she want to brag about it? What if she, too, is in a horrible mood, but instead of dismissing herself to her bedroom, she insists on remaining on the communal couch, making it impossible for me to soak in my misery alone and binge-watch “Sherlock”? Many roommates, especially girls, are born without the sense to read someone’s vibes and are unable to take the massive, middle-finger hint that is your “DON’T ASK” facial expression. But, when you live by yourself, you have no one to answer to but you and a bowl of ice cream. And maybe some popcorn after that if it was seriously a really shitty day.

You can have really loud sex.

For the times you get to break your ever-existing dry spell, you can be as loud as you want to be about it. So what if your neighbor hears? You don’t live with your neighbor, and you don’t have to experience the next morning of awkwardly making morning-after eggs and offering some to your roomie. The most you ever do with your neighbor is make brief small talk. If you’re socially awkward enough to word vomit, “Sorry about my loud sex the other night! I just hadn’t had it in SO long and it felt SO good! Did you hear me scream ‘HARDER!?’ ” then it’s very possible you most likely probably didn’t even have sex in the first place. When you live alone, you can bone in the kitchen, on the couch, in the bathroom, in the closet, on the chair, in the air, on the stairs, and never once do you have to worry about getting walked in on by anyone except your dog (who will either walk right back out, hide in the corner and watch or, like mine, climb onto the pillow next to you and stare intently while taking detailed notes).

You can be naked. All the time.

When you have a roommate, it’s not often you can walk around in just underwear or your birthday suit. You have to do really annoying things like respect his or her space and wear clothes that cover your lady bits and man parts. But when you live alone, you can be naked whenever and however often you want. Do laundry naked. Cook naked (but wear an apron). Lie on the couch under your fluffiest movie-watching blanket that’s covered in wine stains–naked. If you live alone but have yet to indulge in the sweet, liberating pleasure that is carrying about in the nude, then you haven’t lived. Sit on the couch, butt naked, spread eagle, and laugh. Dry heave, at but also admire how your extraneous fat jiggles when you laugh at yourself in mirror. Do all this, and I promise you’ll see a spike in your self-confidence as well. That’s right. Living alone and constantly being clothed in nothing can do wonders for your self-image if you let it.

You don’t have to share.

It doesn’t matter if it’s laundry detergent, shampoo, Hillshire Farms Oven Roasted Turkey Breast–roommates always mooch. You’ve done it. They’ve done it. When you live with someone else among his or her personal possessions, crossover is bound to happen. You’re in your communal shower and ran out of conditioner. What do you do? Forgo conditioning for the sake of sparing your roommate that dime-sized squirt you need and walk around with insultingly dry ends? No. But once you start doing these small things, you can’t stop. And neither can your roommate. And, suddenly, your OJ is down to half a cup when you could’ve sworn you had half a bottle left. But your roommate’s conditioner is almost completely gone and you know you’re to blame. Worlds are colliding and everything’s out of control! But live alone and everything is yours and yours only. No more do you have to be mindful when using the communal laundry detergent or dry swifter pads. You live in a free for all!

You’re the only one to blame.

Trash overflowing? Garbage disposal clogged? Toilet paper roll empty? Wet laundry sitting in the washer for hours? You have no one to blame but yourself. There’s a twisted joy in living alone and realizing that if something doesn’t get done, it’s no one else’s fault. The solo lifestyle forces you into accepting complete and total responsibility for all your domestic habits. If bills don’t get paid or doors don’t get locked, it’s all you, baby. It’s a lot of self ass-kicking, but it beats having to leave passive aggressive notes around the house pretending to kindly remind your roommate of roommate responsibilities. Or worse, send passive aggressive texts to said roommate when you’re both home, only rooms away from one another.

You: Hey. Leaving for work early tomorrow. Would you take the trash down like I normally do? I’ll barely have time to shower and catch my flight.

Roommate: Ha I’ve taken the trash down plenty of times. But yeah, that’s fine. Have safe travels! (insert airplane emoji to ease disgustingly passive aggressive tension)

Cut to you feeling an odd mixture of injustice, rage, and anxiety in your bed. You’re literally feet away. Just writing that made me squirm and feel the need to group text my best friends about what a bitch my make believe roommate is.

Your way or no way.

Hands down, the best part about living alone is that everything–and I mean EVERYTHING–is your way. From the way you clean, to the way you don’t shower daily and fall asleep in your own post-gym filth, to the volume at which you like to watch TV, to the very specific way you like to organize the refrigerator, no one is going to mess with the way you operate. Leave the doors double-bolted with no worries about whether or not your roomie will get locked out. You can laugh really loud, cry even louder, sing in heinous voices, dance around naked and let your lady parts flop around, fart, and have three orgies in a weekend and no one can say a damn thing. Except for your conscience, because that last bit I just wrote is foul and weird. Ew.

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Emma G

Emma is a female with a vagina and, subsequently, often writes things other vaginas (and sometimes weiners) find super relatable. She is a 20something who loves eating, buying clothes she doesn't need, and wearing lipstick. You can find 4+ years of her rantings on her blog: www.emmasthing.com

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