Since he left, I’ve devoured eleven books. I’m insatiable, looking everywhere for ways to satisfy my mind, occupy my time.
I’ve perfected the art of the grilled cheese sandwich. This might not sound very impressive, but I assure you, it’s a feat nonetheless. I’ve experimented with four types of bread, six kinds of cheese, varying butter/margarine combos, and three different pans in my kitchen. I’ve also figured out the perfect mustard to honey ratio to whip up a great little dipping sauce. This is my comfort food, warm gooey goodness enveloped in buttery, flakey crust.
When I’m lonely or sad or just a little blue, I’ve found that reverting to childhood comforts is the best way to perk up. When I was a kid, there was nothing a good book couldn’t cure. Lose yourself in someone else’s world for an hour or two and you’ll forget your own problems in no time. It’s a little harder now, but at least reading is a constructive time waster. At least I’m not drinking my sorrows away.
I feel so much pressure to fill my free time with a hundred thousand activities like the rest of the people in this city. Trivia! Spin class! Happy hour! Yoga! It’s like I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts for a single second, so I plan my days down to the last minute.
But when life is life and plans get cancelled, I come unmoored. I’m distraction-less. My roommate walks in to find me weeping over a sandwich in the kitchen.