I love being home alone. I live in a house with six other people (most of whom are female and all of whom are related to me) and so if I want to walk around naked–which is actually most of the time–seriously, the only thing better than lounging around home with no clothes on is lounging around home with nothing but a bow tie on–I have to wait until everyone else is at work, or school, or the grocery store. If I’m lucky, that’s maybe once a month. My overwhelming urges to color naked, therefore, are generally not satisfied. Even worse, though, I frequently find myself in the disagreeable position of wanting to run around my home in the nude streaming flowers all over the place without being capable of satisfying this primal longing. My life has become a living hell.
I long for future days of bachelorhood, wherein I will sprawl on the couch and watch Doctor Who in my birthday suit and consume large bowls of ice cream. In this vision of the future I will not have a cat for fear it will accidentally pounce on my doodle and cause me serious bodily harm. However, I will have my own ironing board that I will use to keep my clothing nice and fresh when I’m not wearing them (which will be an often) and, if I’m really drunk, to use like a surf board.
This, my friends, is my dream–the American dream.