Playing Alone

You know those games you play when you live with someone? The constant battle over mundane household chores, each side trying to wear the other down until victory is achieved? Wars of attrition, folks. Once upon a time, in my not-too-distant past, I cohabitated. And I played those very games. I let the dust bunnies frolic under the bed. The dish had no opportunity to run away with the spoon, as they were both dirty in the kitchen sink. Fruits and vegetables rotted quietly in their bins in the refridgerator. And there was a certain smugness and perfection to my art, a beauty to my greatness of neglect. (And really, who am I kidding? I'm a Virgo. It never got that bad.)

Now I live alone. And the games continue, without my knowing (or at least acknowledging) who I am playing against. The ridiculousness of the situation struck me tonight. I fixed myself a drink, used the last of the ice cubes, and placed the empty tray back in the freezer. Who, exactly, did I think was going to refill it? I mentioned this to DJ and she suggested that I start to leave my toilet seat up and refuse to take out the garbage. Just to get at...myself.

Just as I was starting to think that all was lost, that I was irretrievably fucked up, that I might as well drop out of grad school and invest my remaining savings in intensive psychotherapy, MS came over. And made himself a drink. And refilled the ice cube tray.

I win.