20nothing.com

If I am ever a housewife, my husband won’t need rent money. He will need bail money. The idea of spending my days cooking and cleaning and cohabiting makes me want to commit capital crimes that even O.J’s lawyer would shy away from. Even when I have had roommates, I have needed a stress ball, or a constant stream of orgasms, to control myself around, you know, society. The constant pressure to talk, to appease and to accommodate forces a selfish person (Hi!) to channel every resource known to man just so that no one ends up wrapped around the dishwasher with a kettle cord around their neck.
One might say that I am not the domestic type.

I live in a studio apartment. It is my own sanctuary away from the rest of the planet and its population, where no rules exist, and where I don’t have to speak for days on end if I so choose. It is the physicalization of my alone time. I have always believed that people need their own space to just Be, because as much as we insist that What You See Is What You Get in public, the truth is that none of us behave as we do when we are alone. And if someone tells you the opposite, they are lying or hideously fake even when no one is watching. I have never, and probably will never, cook chicken nuggets naked in public. But I do in my own abode. It is the most PG rated of things I do when I am by myself with the door locked.
One might say that it took a period of adjustment to have house guests.

The Prettiest Boy In The World and My Nanna are both staying with me. The four walls that enclose my world have been infiltrating by two of the people who make it. The reality seems, almost, idealistic. But, then, you have to remember that I am, like most people, completely and utterly selfish and just want to sit on the kitchen counter eating cereal out of the box while reading The National Enquirer and wearing [only] booties. Having to always be On, to talk, to appease, to accommodate, for one week only, has forced me to be the Carol Brady of the new millennium’s fucked up version of The Brady Bunch. I cook, I clean, I cohabit and, unless there is late-acting food poisoning from my chicken nugget dinner, no one has died.

Human beings are, apparently, inherently stubborn and arrogant. I try to argue this, but struggle to convince even myself that it is an opinion rather than a fact. All I ever have to do is look in the mirror, and I have a full-length one in my studio, to see the physicalization of stubbornness and arrogance right in front of me. Human beings don’t like change, strive to maintain the status-quo and, as I have recently learned, love to fuck on a beanbag/in the kitchen/or in the shower. Any place that allows for a little bit of alone time, really.
We spend so much time making our reality as perfect as we want it. So when something, or someone, swoops in to dismantle the routine, we blame, we deny, we justify and we avoid. Rather than readjust ourselves, we often revert into an internal phase of solitary that was once represented by our house and point our finger to the person we invited into our house in the first place.
One might say that it is easier to make our own problems someone else’s issue.

Many anthropologists talk about the differences between men and women, how they are biologically, psychologically and evolutionarily different. We have different neurological pathways, we have different body language and, most obviously, we have different conversational skills that can implode when a boy and a girl cohabit. So, putting me, My Nanna and The Prettiest Boy In The World in the one house together was more interesting of a recipe than if I had decided to cook something from scratch.
I spent most of the day dreaming of sitting in on the floor of my shower, with a cigarette and a scotch, not speaking, until I was doing just that. With no one to talk to, to appease or to accommodate, I had a moment to realize that just because there is a disposition to be stubborn and arrogant, doesn’t mean that it is right. It doesn’t mean that I should not just Get The Fuck Over Myself and deal with the fact that my world as I know it is currently being invaded by aliens.
One might say that the absence of constant orgasms was the problem.

I reemerged from the shower and was ready to write a story of a lovely lady who was pouring three very lovely drinks. It was like my attempt at being a housewife, accommodating to those in my house, which had the benefit of calming my brain while only killing my living. We all relaxed into our own corner of the studio, three people, living all together who were lucky because, sometimes, we were all alone.
This millennium’s, urban, fucked up version, really.