sans pants

I find that one of the great things about having your own place is the fact that you can leave things any way you want and they will always be there when you go look for them, and nobody tells you to clean up after yourself. Like, I can leave socks on the coffee table, my purse on the kitchen floor and assorted, half read books on the dining table, the counters and between couch cushions and they won't vanish.

I can also eat two desserts or drink a whole bottle of wine all myself. I can watch "Coming To America" or "The Devil Wears Prada" every weekend without hearing a word otherwise. I can spend my Saturday night strutting around without pants. (I've done that with past roommates and they didn't seem to enjoy it.)

Every once in a while I have that satisfying sensation that I'm taking care of myself, and not living at home anymore, or with roommates, and I really have the freedom to do whatever. Were I more adventurous, I may do something more exciting than watch "Lost in Translation" and walk in front of my open windows in my underwear. But I'm not anymore. I don't know when I'll get back to being like that again. If.

Speaking of "Lost In Translation", I tried watching this movie years ago, while tripping balls on Percocet, following dental surgery. I got maybe 10 minutes into it and shut it off. I couldn't handle it. Now, four years later, I've made a second attempt and this movie is still bizarre as fuck.