You have to face a world that’s rife with pain and obligation, and you have to face it hungover. But hey, now you’ve made it in the “real world” — now you’re a grown-up. At some point though, it all seems so petty, so serf-like. I mean, there’s literally a “lord’ in landlord. So from one peasant to another, I’d like to share the wisdom I’ve accrued about bachelor life and its many joys and pains.
Let’s face it, not living in your parents’ house makes it easier to have premarital sex. Running a household entitles you to indulge in as much lust as you wish — guilt-free. Still, the next morning can feel a bit awkward if you have roommates. They know what happened.
Drug use and abuse (especially abuse)
This one varies depending on where you live and who you live with. For me, I still opt to smoke outside but I definitely feel more comfortable being messed up in my own abode. Also, my room is littered with empties and, hey, that’s my prerogative.
Money (what money?)
Even if you’re a responsible young adult, you’re going to be poor. And if you’re a skid, believe me, you will be broke. Of course, I strongly recommend you go with the latter. It has also come to my attention that credit card money is not actually money — it’s debt. But hey, debt is temporary, while good times last forever.
Food (or something like it)
Nutrition really goes down the shitter when you move out. See, I’m too lazy to walk to a real grocery store. Usually, I just walk 50 feet to 7-Eleven and buy a few staple foods (at inflated rates). I have a Golden Rule of bachelor cooking that I adhere to: whatever food you have that requires the least prep, that gets eaten first.
Coming from the suburbs, you really learn the importance of location. I used to suffer epic, 3 a.m., dead-of-winter, drunken bike rides home. Now that I live closer to Broadway, I am within walking distance of most cool places — and stumbling distance from the bars.
With every passing year it gets harder to be taken seriously when you admit, “I live with my parents.” Bachelor life, on the other hand, makes you out to be a real Working Class Hero. You can gripe about adult problems like noisy neighbours and shoddy plumbing. You can act like you’re really roughing it. Because it’s not like you live in a super privileged nation, right?
I haven’t really had any more privacy since I moved out. There’s the roommate, for starters. Then there are hooligans that I hear trampling into the apartment at wee hours of the morn’. I’m starting to think my dream home might just be a dirty trailer in Texas somewhere. I would have all I need there: a sofa, a bottle of Jack Daniels, records, a shotgun and a loveless marriage to Arlene. That’s it, I’m headed to Texas!