Until three weeks ago, the closest I’d come to living on my own was a fortnight house sitting while my family sunned themselves on holiday. Then me and my girlfriend moved in, and then she went on holiday. The last seven days have been… interesting.
House shares can be glorious. I’ve made great friends, had fantastic parties, got jobs and had some good times. It’s also a sure bet that if you’re anything other than a non-personality every house share outside of a sitcom will eventually supernova.
When I moved into my last place, it was the best thing I could have done. When I left, I couldn’t have been happier to be escaping a stupid situation making stress mountains out of drying up molehills or house cleaning divots.
I love living with my girlfriend, but once she skipped the country for the week I discovered how lazy I can be. If I really lived on my own, I’d get nothing done but I’d feel as exhausted as if I’d been going full-tilt. Though I’d probably get through a dozen DVDs a week.
Writing can be pretty exhausting, especially when you’ve nothing to write about. Writing this blog while she was gone only felt anything other than a chore when something interesting popped into my head. A friend came over for the weekend, and I actually found myself writing a post while watching the footie with him just to keep up my streak.
Now she’s back, I’d like to think I could keep this up – but doing it at the expense of actual human interaction sounds a bit stupid. In previous houseshares I’d have longed for something to retreat to and express myself with. It doesn’t work that way now.
This is a nothing post. A filler post. I wrote it trying not to miss a day, put the effort of actually writing it in, then missed two days. Now I’m finishing it at work. Maybe it’d be a better idea to just keep this up if I’ve actually got something to say.