Home Alone

Home Alone

I like being on my own. I also like being in control, what I eat, when I clean. Unfortunately, I still live at home. Dinner is normally ready when I get home. Some may say I’ve got it good, but I’m not always hungry when I walk through the door. I also have to account where I am every night and exactly what time I’ll be home so Mother knows whether to cook for me. I’m not ungrateful but I feel like I have no privacy and can’t make decisions on a whim. God forbid I deviate from the calendar and not follow the system!

I may sound like a social party animal but I’m not. I like time on my own and reading. But in the family home, I don’t always get this privilege. I’m probably coming across as ungrateful. “They’re your family, they care about how you day was.” But the answer is always the same: it was fine. After rough days, I like nothing more than to sit in front of some rubbish on television and forget all about it. If I want to talk, I’ll in the kitchen but my room is my sanctuary. A permission slip is required.

My family have disappeared on holiday and I’ve been left home alone and I couldn’t be happier. Not only can I watch what ever I want on “the downstairs” television and eat what I want. I remember how much I like cooking, but I’m not allowed. In my defence, I offer but they are met with scoffs and eaten with pantomime scenes of dying and choking. This is my idea of a holiday. Two weeks off work, never changing out of my pajamas, doing what I want without having to explain myself. Absolute bliss.

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