I get back
from my morning work--out, and his plane has left. I cry. He's been gone two hours. Already I'm scared. I knew I'd be scared.

Maybe it will be good to remember the feeling of being alone. I'm always running around telling everyone how important it is for people to be alone for a while because you get to know yourself so well, which is weird because the only thing I learned while living alone was that I hate myself.

I walk around the house looking for signs of Andy: a can of nuts in the bedroom, the box from his computer in the living room, the smell of his sweat in the dirty laundry. I cry some more. Then I go to the bathroom and notice that Andy left the seat up. I sit on the cold porcelain for a while to think.

I decide to masturbate. Once I start in with the excessive masturbation, it's hard to stop because it feels good, and it doesn't make me fat.

When I've worn out all of my masturbating possibilities it's not even 2 p.m. I tell myself how wonderful it will be to have the whole house to myself. I put on The Cars, which Andy won't listen to, and I start scrubbing the floors and dusting underneath the bookshelves. When Andy's around, there's never a clear path through the hallway. Now I can make the path I've been wanting. This consoles me a while. I take two boxes that Andy hasn't unpacked since we moved in, and put them in the storage area. I get great pleasure from the extra space. I move some of my overcrowded books into the cleared-out area, and recall the joy of having complete freedom to fill the space I live in.

After three hours of cleaning, I sit down on the sofa and wonder what I'll do next.

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