The beautiful thing about moving to Korea was that I could finally have my own place. Let’s face it, even with good jobs right out of college, most of us millennials can’t afford to live without roommates; unless we have a significant other to shack up with, we find ourselves sharing a roof with other single twenty-somethings, attempting to abide by the laws of cohabitation and trying not to have a meltdown at our roommate’s hairballs, mold encrusted dishes, and other disgusting habits.
But the truth is, we all have some pretty disgusting habits. We are all a little strange, and when living with others we work to suppress our weirdness in an effort to convince people that yes, I really am a totally normal, emotionally stable, well-adjusted person. We clean up after ourselves; we limit our shower singing; we keep our clothes on.
I’m here to tell you, though, that when you live alone… all that goes flying out the window.
As a single girl who lives alone, here are my confessions:
The first thing I do when I walk in the door is take off my pants.
My house is generally a mess. But if I know someone is coming over, I’ll spend an hour frantically cleaning. Then, when the person arrives, I’ll say, “Sorry my house is such a mess. I haven’t had time to clean!”
You know those ridiculous dance parties the girl in the movies has where she slides around in her socks and dances like a dork and sings into her hairbrush? Those are real. (But not nearly as cute).
I spend an inordinate amount of time staring at myself in the mirror making weird faces.
If I run out of dishes, I’ll just find something else to drink from: an old jar, a measuring cup, the blender. Nothing will stop me from drinking the wine.
I do everything from my bed. Eat, watch TV, drink wine, paint my nails, blow dry my hair. Then I wonder why I wake up in a pile of cornflakes.
I fart out loud. Like, really loudly. I know boys like to think that the only thing that comes out of a girl’s butt is rainbows, but I can assure you that we women are gaseous creatures.
I talk to myself out loud. I ask myself questions–and sometimes answer them.
When I’m feeling emo I sometimes do interpretive dances to Adele.
Table manners? What table manners? Meal time is like a call of the wild feeding frenzy.
I say things into the mirror to see what I look like saying them.
If I’m sad, I’ll have one of those really loud, ugly cries that you didn’t think anyone actually did. Then I will drown my sorrows by eating ice cream straight from the carton. In my bed, of course.
My neighbors have probably seen me walking around naked.
Well, if I wasn’t already doomed to a life of singlehood my fate is sealed for sure now. And I’m not even including the black hole of facebook I can get sucked into for hours on end… Ah well, can anyone relate?