Better than counting sheep.

I’m about a third of the way through a bottle of Jim Beam, which, remarkably hasn’t done the job yet. It’s my first night here; the bulk of my personal belongings are sprawled among a few people’s homes and cars. The power doesn’t even come on until tomorrow. I’ve got some blankets and candles but the silence is unnerving. I wish to scream even if just to hear something. But, this is now home. Anything is better than there.

I’ve convinced myself that this is going to be the life-altering change I’ve been in desperate pursuit of since graduating last summer. Living alone—such a daunting task! You either revel in it and succeed, or you don’t. I suppose I’m due for a challenge. But I never really liked people all that much anyway. I think I’ll be just fine.

Vincent told me today that the day he decided to live alone was the day he became the man he always wanted to be. He stopped cleaning his kitchen, drank in excess, let the bottles and cans become the overall decorative statement of his flat. He took to smoking inside, bought an old typewriter and became a recluse. He painted the walls black to spite himself.

He’s my hero. Thank you Vincent. And thank you Jim Beam.

It smells odd in here. I should start smoking.


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