Being left alone in the apartment is great, and also it is ever so slightly gloomy.
It’s great because I go full out introvert and get all kinds of creative and start writing letters and devising comics and reading books and shit. I feel like an adult, I feel independent, and I spend a long time making myself a nice dinner and sitting at the table to eat it, listening to Bastille and James Blake. I also bound up and down the hallway instead of walking. This isn’t part of the feeling like an adult bit.
It’s gloomy because I can’t stop eating and I hear noises that I’m not sure exist outside my own mind. I physically clambered on the kitchen countertop to find the chocolate my housemate had secreted on the top shelf of the cupboard. I have eaten most of the plums I bought today and I have devoured endless packets of Pocky. I can think of nothing but deep and delicious cake. And the noises I hear are other than the infernal beep of the smoke detector that’s out of battery (but not so out of battery that it shuts up). What’s that whistling sound? That tapping? Why does the fridge kick off every so often and make a racket?
The mysteries of the uptown Toronto apartment building.