I think my brother moved out on Friday. One can never be sure of these things; he could just be on an extended sleepover/roadtrip/crime spree with his friends. He didn't exactly say goodbye to me; the only indication that he had possibly moved out was a facebook status update detailing the list of items he was packing (throwing knives, bowie knives, halbards, machetes, video games, no clothes).
Then his tricorner hat mysteriously disappeared from its place on the hallway nule post, which is always a good indication that he's vacated the premises, at least temporarily.
I was excited. There are some things you just can't do when sharing the upper floor of your house with your brother. These things include wandering around naked, using the hallway to cut out your latest apron pattern, relying on the possibility that the bathroom will be vacant at any point in time, and sleeping with a pair of grotesque and incredibly vocal cats.
Basically, I couldn't do anything that would indicate that I'm a self-satisfied spinster who will probably die alone and be eaten by wild dogs (and house cats)*. I realized this just about the time that I was excitedly telling the Ugly Cat and the Less Ugly Cat that they could share my bed with me on this frigid Saturday night.
This was a strange realization, seeing as how I'm not actually single, which I thought was one of the main requirements of being a self-satisfied spinster. No, it would appear that having a real live boyfriend doesn't immediately cure you of all the mannerisms you picked up in your first 22 years of being single.
Strange, I know.
*Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Haha, have you ever seen the episode of Sex and the City where Miranda chokes on her take out Chinese food and is convinced her cat is going to eat her alive before anyone can find her body? Morbid but HYSTERICAL.
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