On My Own

It's cold in Chicago today. I scraped the icy debris off of my windows myself. I pumped my own gas and kept myself entertained by puffing air out of my mostly novocained, post-apocolyptic-dental- destroyed mouth into the cold and watching it swirl away. I'm actually surprisingly adept at doing a lot of things by myself. I can do my own laundry and dishes and keep my room in some semblance of order. I know the numbers north, south, east and west as they branch out from the center point of downtown (madison and state). I can stumble home inebriated without aide. I can finish my homework and talk around questions in class when I don't. I remember to breathe. I very rarely burn things when I cook. I (most of the time) find a way to pull myself together and get from point a to point b and through the day. A lot of the time, I even enjoy it. There is strange delight in answering to no one, explaining yourself to no one. Being able to eat more ketchup than I should on a hot dog or not carrying gum if I'm going out for salad without fear of being judged or wanted any less. It makes me feel like a mystery, even if there isn't anyone trying to solve me. Which in some odd way makes me feel more interesting, prettier, vaguely exotic.