Living Alone

I live alone.  I've never been married, and at my age I don't see myself ever getting married.  I suppose one never knows, but I can't imagine the woman who would share 1,500 of living space with me and not end up on the front page of tomorrow's newspaper.

Last night I fixed my own dinner (never mind what it was; suffice to say it wasn't civilized) and didn't feel like doing the dishes.  Well, I don't have to if I don't want to, and that's an advantage.  Instead of washing dishes I had another martini and watched ancient reruns of House.

This morning my breakfast morphed from cooked cereal (the pan needed washing, so...) into bacon and eggs, into a three egg omelet with tomatoes, mushrooms, and onion.  I had cheese, but it was in the back of the ice box refrigerator, and had turned into a biology experiment.  So no cheese, which isn't a big loss anyway.

Now my kitchen is a disaster area, and I'm upstairs about to start work on a story or two, and having a DMZ instead of a neat and tidy kitchen bothers me about as much as bad breath bothers a typical Hells Angel.

Still, my office area needs a minor miracle, so maybe I'll vacuum the floor later.  But this means putting a new bag into the vacuum cleaner, which means looking up how to do it, which means finding the users' manual on my HD, then looking up the process and making sense of the poor quality writing that cost the company a good deal less than minimum wage, but allowed a Pakistani or Indian to feed his family that week.

Anyway, it's off to play the keyboard blues.