I Am a Man without Privacy
I sleep in the living room. I change in the bathroom. I masturbate furtively late at night or while showering. I have one drawer for clothes, in the hallway cupboard. I’m living like a brother-in-law that lost his job and got kicked out by his wife.
Just about everything I own will fit into one tightly-packed SUV. Those things do not include a TV, a DVD player, a coffee table, or any of the other things that I gave away over the past two years under the mistaken apprehension that I had a steady living situation.
The sofa is too short for me to even stretch out all the way or sleep on my stomach. I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to endure this, but I don’t have any other choice besides running home to Oregon, and I really don’t think men should run home when they’re almost 40.
This is what I’ve made of my life. I’m a roommate without a bedroom. I’m probably going to wind up rushing headlong into the next relationship just so I’ll have a bed to sleep in.
