Oh darn. Right now, Rocky the pug is rifling through the garbage can, the one he has access to, the one that is a foot high, that one that is in the bathroom. I should know, that after all these years, if I throw a wrapper of a candy bar—or anything that once contained a food item—his pug nose will take him straight there, straight to my trouble, the trouble that I will have to clean up. These are the perks of living alone: no one but yourself to be annoyed at. Now, I would very much like a partner to indeed live with, but I have yet to meet my person. (If you have one, send him my way.) So, with that disclaimer out of the way, here is an ode, a homage, an honor to living alone. I have not historically been a selfish woman, so to play to my interests on a daily basic is liberating—to say yes to anything I want to do, to say no to anything I don’t, without having to consult. I always have to come home at some point during the day to walk Rocky, but beyond that, my options are always limitless. The Teenager is at away; when she is home, the refrigerator is always stocked with her favorite items, I am always considering her schedule, I am always thinking about her (although that includes when she is at school as well). I include her on dinners, I invite her to things, I welcome her company. I call my mother every day, without having to consult with a partner who may not cotton to my mother’s eccentricities. I can choose to spend my afternoon on my couch, watching The Crown until I too, am speaking in a British accent, no one to comment, no one to roll his eyes at, no one to want to do anything but this. You see, I enjoy doing things for my family, for my friends, even for my colleagues. It’s so rare I can do anything for myself—I can’t afford therapy, I don’t have time for the gym (thank goodness for those ten thousand steps I walk every day), I refuse to hire a dog walker, preferring to do it myself regardless of the weather. So, living alone and loving it, loving the freedom of it? I’ll take Rocky pillaging the trash can, I’ll take it, because I get to clean up that mess.

Sophia Chang: “It took until I was 50 to understand that it was time to tell my story.”

Garance Dore (I love this interview, a cautionary tale in its essence): “I felt like I needed to wear all these things – which I did for a while – until I realised it was just not me; until my body told me it was enough, and I started having panic attacks.”

Crown Season Three  BTS.

FAFSA is an acronym for Fuck You, You Middled Aged Fuck For Believing In Your Fucking Kid.

Some stuff about teenagers, some of which I feel the writer got wrong, based on my own experience of living with one.

What do us liberal parents want? Everything to be pink and feminism.

And now have a laugh with Whitney Cummings.