I moved into a new share house when I came back from S.E. Asia. On the spectrum of “I love the feeling of community that communal living provides!” and “I can’t afford my own toilet, shower or kitchen; leave me alone,” I think we fall closer to the “I can’t afford my own toilet, shower, or kitchen; leave me alone,” side of things.
One of the first people I met drives a semi truck. I do wish my first reaction wasn’t to ask questions about the cab while thinking, “I’m so going to try to ride with him somewhere.”
This morning I went into the kitchen before work where a middle aged man in thick glasses, high wasted gym shorts, and a deeply tucked in shirt was leaning over a charring piece of salmon. I said, “you should turn the heat down or flip it,” and he said, “No, no, the top isn’t done yet.” When I left for work the kitchen was filling up with black smoke, and he was still just standing there watching it.
So it’s kind of a house for the functionally retarded. I’m feeling pretty at home here.