Up until two and a half months ago the closest I came to living on my own was the apartment I shared with my ex. In a way that was more mind than my townhouse now because we were a couple and everything was ours, together. Here it's more ours, separately.
I love our house and the general dynamic of it. I love that no one eats all the cheese I have in the refrigerator. I love that someone doesn't take over all my space in the bathroom the second I move something. I love that I don't have to make sure it's okay with everyone if I have guests over. I love impromptu sleepovers.
I love our liquor fridge.
Don't judge. We're college students.
(Speaking of liquor, I recently discovered you can put Malibu coconut rum in anything and it will turn out tasty.)
I love that no one gets bent out of shape if I leave after two AM, come home after three AM, or don't come home at all. My roommates just call me a dirty hooker and laugh.
And that's one of many reasons why I love them.
Sometimes, though, there are things I wish I could talk to my mom about because she always gives the best advice, but I don't feel that I can. Even though I'm pretty sure I know what she'd say. And it's not what I'd want to hear.
Then there are things I try to talk to her about because I desperately need help and advice and I get nothing.
Like the fact that I have to get my piano from Santa Cruz this weekend and I have no money and no way to transport it.
I miss the days of two years ago when I thought my life was stressful.