Invite: APARTMENT PARTY! PAINT MY WALLS WITH YOUR BLOOD.

​I’ve been alone for so long I’m concerned I don’t even remember how to be with people.

When my greatest moments are alone

Pumping music and love and life into my ears

Dancing in my kitchen, knives and onions, carrots and strawberries, happy plastic utensils getting jiggy with me.
I walk down the sidewalk, sun and wind diffusing through me, the sidewalk,

which is suddenly too narrow,

seems to spread beyond the lines and onto the road

Cars smile as they pass, people smile as 

I pass them.
My new apartment is beautiful.

A chestnut circular table (that I got along with two matching chairs from Value Village for only $30!) with a bright red-green tablecloth that greets you with joy.

And my aunt’s old couch! (Now covered in a somewhat Cthulic but intriguing cloth tapestry, cleverly placed over the chunk the dog took out of the cushion)

I need some more art on my walls, that bothers me. But it’ll come, in time.

When you walk in, you immediately notice three happy plants. Two are flourishing surprisingly well, and the other unsurprisingly so (my mum tried to kill it off for months at her office before passing it to me)

A real passion for life in that room- you can see prints hanging from the ceiling, and all types of cool, cultured bits and bobs scattered around.

I have a record player and my set of speakers. I have a tea pot and a collection of tea (and sugar to season!) 

I can dance alone on the cool, dead hardwood floor and venerate myself until my joints freeze and my bones emaciate.

Because what’s the use of a circular table and a tea set and walls to fill if the only damn thing you’re celebrating is yourself. 

I’m sitting here in a corner on my first day of university, headphones in, writing this.