The Hazards of Six Feet Under

I enjoy living alone. I truly do. It took a little while to get used to after having had a roommate for so long. The heater, air conditioner, dishwasher, refrigerator, neighbors below, and what might be ghosts in my walls all made interesting and loud noises when I first moved in. Particularly at night. But I adapted and quickly grew to love it. It's quiet when I want it to be, I always have control of the TV remote, and I can spend half the day unshowered and in my pajamas without a second thought if that's what my heart desires. It only gets lonely when I let myself think about the possibility of living alone my whole life. That, on some level, I know is a real possibility and that's sad.

I saw an episode of Six Feet Under last night (Netflix Rocks!) where the dead guy du jour was a woman in her 40's who lived alone. She choked eating a microwave dinner and ended up dying on the floor in her kitchen. Apparently she had no friends either, as it took a week for anyone to notice something was awry and to find her body. I think that's my new biggest irrational fear. And I fully know that it's irrational! It certainly gave me pause, though, sitting on the couch and watching this woman die while shoveling broccoli into my mouth.

Re: my previous post. Just to let you know, I have in fact offered to do interpretive dance for a class grade in lieu of writing a research paper. It was my first semester here. My prof found the idea quite amusing (two of us proposed it to him), but he declined. He preferred the paper in the end. Which was good, because we were only serious about the dance in the most vague terms. But I'm not above doing cosmology-interpretive dance if that's what it take to get my class involved. :)