one is the lonliest number

Gone are the days of productive independence that I gained and cherished post-Paul. I used to fill my days and nights…entertaining myself with paper writing, home décor rearrangement, and mindless movie watching.

I was motivated. I was moving. I was lonely.

And where am I now?........

Alone in my apartment. Writing?....no. cleaning?....no. rearranging?....no. watching a gripping movie?....nope, not even the one that’s two days past due.

I’m bored and I’m pouting about it.

New dude has come along and I have, with certainty, lost all means of independence. Perhaps it’s because I’m stuck in the Hub of Hell alone…no friends to call. Or perhaps it’s because I’m a latcher.

Latcher—one who cannot be by oneself when with another

I don’t want to be a latcher. Latchers are annoying. They drive you insane. Being in a relationship with a latcher is like wearing a spandex bodysuit that’s a size too small…all you can think about is pealing the damn thing off so you can breathe a bit. “Get off me”…”Get a life”…and “GO AWAY’ are the only words that resound in your head when with a latcher. Latchers are terrible.

Now that said….I was going to force myself to be productive and at least clean my bedroom. I was actually on my way….until a pal knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted to join in on some billiards and adult beverages. So while not being independently productive, I at least can go have a bit of fun tonight. I can say I did more than mope while new dude is out of town. And by not moping I can reassure myself that I am in fact not a hideous latcher. I can’t be. I can’t be because I AM GOING OUT TO HAVE SOME FUN WITHOUT NEW DUDE DAMN IT!

…unless of course, I am latching on to my pals…………….shit.