I love being single. Eventually I'll slip back into wanting a regular sleeping buddy and man to domesticate myself for, but I have enjoyed the past two (of the three) months of singledom.
For example, I can take my CHI straightener out of hiding under my bed and be proud that I own two fancy hair straighteners and actually prefer the one from the mall salesman.
I do not feel guilty for buying two purses (from Marshall's, mind you), nor do I feel guilty for the amazing yellow leather wallet, either. It was the third purse that made me guilty, and I decided it wasn't nearly as nice or necessary as the first two.
I also like listening to chick rock, singing loud to it, jumping about my apartment like a spastic dancer, and fully taking advantage of my half-deaf neighbor and fully revenging two years of that damn baby on the other side. You never would have guessed the only class I've ever failed was aural skills listening to my vocal abilities. Never.
I don't like that I never cook for one or that I fall asleep to Hulu more than anything.
But I am only just now turning on my library of Les Miserables soundtracks and relearning how much I love playing my darling communist cello named Mao and how Jenny Lewis's lyrics will always strike true and how great and how exciting I can be and how that yes, I can do what I want to in life and can do anything I want.
Except move. I honestly would rather burn everything than pack, donate, or sell anything.
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