solitary confinement

People seem to think that it's difficult, living alone. To the extent that almost anything else is preferable. How odd. I don't find it so difficult, having to accommodate myself to the crazy whims of absolutely no-one. I feel that I may already have lived with the only people in this reality that I am capable of living with. Perhaps there are others, and one could of course force applicants (if any) to undergo a series of tests beforehand. But there are no guarantees.

As to the notion of a significant other, that seems even more far-fetched. Even if you find that special someone, you then have to understand that they already have a life of their own. You have to meet their friends and their family. Their kids. Their pets. The very thought of it is exhausting. There is, I suppose, the possibility of finding someone with no friends or family. Like maybe a tramp. But I can't really seek out people with no friends or family. It's a little too much like a serial killer searching for victims.

That is one of the problems of living alone – you run the risk of forgetting how to be human. And there are times when I look down over Kings Road from my living room window and crazed power fantasies thrill through me as I see the people walking along, unaware of me, and imagine selecting one I like the look of, and transporting them somehow into my flat, as a diner might select a lobster from a tank. But I wouldn't know what to do with them, any more than I would with a lobster. Boil it alive, yes. But what about the claws?

My only real contact with any of my neighbours thus far has been over the Incident of the Red Box. And even that was barely an incident. The thing is, I don't have a red box for glass recycling, so I have developed a tendency, come Refuse Collection Eve, of looking out for other people's. The other night I darted across the road with my wine bottles and placed them with great care - because the box was already full - on top of someone else's empties. Suddenly the door of the house opened and a guy stepped out to find me crouched over his used glass like a really desperate alcoholic urban fox. I felt rather furtive and guilty, though of course I wasn't really doing anything wrong - was I? 'Am I allowed to do this?', I asked. 'No problem at all', he said, nervously inching away. 'No problem at all.' Then he walked off towards the station, before suddenly turning and walking back up towards town – presumably so discombobulated by the sight of me that he completely forgot where he was meant to be going.

I waited until he'd gone then crept back across the road to get more bottles. What am I turning into?, I wonder.