I moved home just before Christmas. During my first three weeks here, I didn’t look for a new job. Instead, I created a creative writing portfolio from scratch in order to apply to graduate programs. The applications were my full-time job, cost a bit of money and a lot of time. Because of this, I didn’t have income for six weeks. Application deadlines wouldn’t wait.

Everything is working out – I now work at Half Price Books with plenty of lovely people, and it looks like I’ll be going to grad school in August. But the point is, I could not have applied in such a short time frame if I had a job, dependents, or rent. Thankfully, I live with my parents.

They’re pretty good roommates. Sure, I love not paying rent. All the things I used to do alone – eat dinner, watch TV – I now often do with my parents, and I’m happy. We’ve gotten to know each other better – before, we only talked on the phone once a week.

Plus when I wake up in the middle of the night, convinced a serial killer is in the house, I feel relieved when I remember my dad sleeps with a baseball bat under his bed. This goes for every time I think I left the front door unlocked, the oven on, or worry about carbon monoxide poisoning.

I still work, go out to see friends, etc. I stay away from the basement, and I’ve never been one for video games, so there goes that stereotype.

The main drawback, is that I have to wear pants (most of the time), something that is optional when living alone. Sometimes I think back to days of laying on the couch, eating cookie dough and drinking fireball whiskey while watching “Gilmore Girls” on my laptop. Delightful.

But things change. People change. I found out last month I’m hypoglycemic, so cookie dough and fireball whiskey aren’t a good idea anyway. Now I eat vegetables, floss and jog. (I also recycle. MERIT BADGE, PLEASE.) Now I watch “Gilmore Girls” on a real TV. My mom and I are watching it together, starting from Season 1.

I used to associate moving back with parents with failure. It means you couldn’t support yourself, that your dreams weren’t what you thought they would be. And it’s true – but is that such a shameful thing? We all take knocks and we all need help, and that is OK. It’s good to ask for what you need.

I like to think my parents like having me around, too. My contributions to the household are cooking one weekly dinner and cleaning the bathrooms. So far, I’ve made potstickers, lettuce wraps, and tillapia with a steak rub.The tillapia was terrible. Actually, none of the dinners were very good. But I’m trying.

I can be an odd roommate. Dishes can go missing for days when I eat leftover tillapia in bed. I often wake up at 3 a.m., write until 5 a.m., then sleep until 9 a.m. I break household items. Specifically the DVD player, the Internet, the lightswitch, and maybe a few other things. I’m also responsible for a surplus of furniture in the basement, and for Craiglist strangers coming over to buy it.

When my parents are old, they are more than welcome to live with me. Granted I plan to be a poet/writing professor/artisan toast chef, so I’ll probably live in a studio apartment.

Maybe I’ll buy a futon.

I’ve been to the grocery store three times this week, each time swearing that this is the last trip, that these groceries are enough to last until I leave Emporia on Friday. I must have bought at least five packages of frozen food, which I have sworn off over and over because they have more salt than the Atlantic and various other components that will probably give me cancer, but I’m continually lured back by the promise of instant sweet-and-sour chicken.

Oh well.

One of the reasons I love living alone is because I can be very possessive of my food. I don’t share food, underwear or driving privileges. If you think it’s cute to snatch a bite of my mashed potatoes while I’m not looking, it’s not. I keep a fork-sharpener in my purse for just such reasons.

The one downside of never sharing is the absence of people to blame when half my batch of brownies go mysteriously missing.

Leaving Emporia probably means I’ll live 10 years longer, because I’m moving away from what I call the most heart-attack-adjacent corner in town. It takes less than 30 seconds of walking to reach a Chinese restaurant, liquor store, donut shop, frozen yogurt and pizza place. Be still, my heart (maybe forever if you eat the way I did when I first moved here).

Then there are the times I eat my feelings.  Who doesn’t? Bad Chinese and a healthy dose of Gilmore Girls can cure any breakup or other emotional slump. Sure, roommates can also help you through rough patches. But I like to think Chef Boyardee and Little Caesar’s also have strong, supportive presences in my apartment. Ben and Jerry are my most frequent male visitors.

I don’t think anyone should feel guilty about using food to feel better every now and then. I mean, it’s better than crack or whiskey, or crack-whiskey.

Cooking reaffirms my natural role as a homemaker. No matter how successful I am at my career or how independent I am from men, I can’t suppress my instinctive need to take out my curlers, put on an apron and make a hearty lasagna for the whole … well there’s just me. There’s nothing like driving home from a hard day at work, knowing that a warm, nutritious meal is being prepared by … oh wait.

It really is weirdly satisfying cook while wearing a nice dress. Seriously, I kind of want curlers and an apron. Hello, June Cleever!

I am immune from health guilt or judgement! Every cookie I eat only make me stronger. But after my doctor said I need to watch my blood sugar, I started being more careful. There are still times when I throw caution to the winds, cook up a big plate of french fries, and gobble it down without a second thought.These moments of weakness occur roughly three-seven times a week. I’m working on it.

I’m not sure which conclusion to draw, except I really like food. And I’m not sharing.

Before this summer, I had never lived alone. Heck, for three of my college years, I didn’t even have my own room. Don’t get me wrong, having two friends permanently hanging out can be pretty fun. There’s always someone else to make dinner, and you’re never alone on a Friday night. But after living alone, I think I’m going to keep flying solo.

I realized that living alone is a privilege enjoyed by people who love Lean Cuisine, Netflix and cheap wine. Just my kind of crowd! It’s not something everyone gets to do. So for all those tied-down, “I have my crap together” friends, hats off. But between you and me, you’re missing out.

1. My apartment, AKA “No-Pants City”

No one knows or cares if I spend all my free time in my underwear. And my lower-half appreciates the freedom. Plus, let’s be honest, everything is more fun in pajamas.

“What are you doing, neighbor Joe?”

“Oh, I’m filing taxes. Payin’ the man! What about you?”

“I’m making cookies in my underwear!”

Fun, huh? I bet even taxes are more fun without pants.

2. No passive-aggressive sticky notes

It happens to every apartment community. One person is neat, and always ends up cleaning the dishes of the messy one. The neat one begins feeling used, unjustly treated, just because of their higher cleanliness standards. So begin the sticky notes.

Somehow, a note saying “Don’t eat the casserole, it’s for my Nana” brings about expletives and other cruel, judgmental language. The sticky that says “Please don’t wake me up until 8:30” makes your roommates sneer. What a lazy-ass bum! We can blast Queen while shaving our legs if we want!

Then you remember that at one point, you were nervous to knock at these people’s dorm room. Oh, the days of sitting awkwardly in the hallway together, pretending to “work” on your laptop when you were really on Facebook, but dying for some real interaction.

3. Quiet time is all the time

After the daily grind, the last thing I want is to make obligatory small-talk, or hear about someone else’s day. Honestly, I would much rather eat spaghetti and frozen yogurt horizontally while using my chest as a placemat. It’s what I do best.

I’m not a J.D. Salinger-esque recluse. But I need my space. With the right flavor of Oreos and movie selection, I could probably stay in my apartment for about 36 hours before getting bored. Sad? Maybe. True? Absolutely.

4. My food is exactly how I left it.

No one will eat my brownies except me, unless I decide to share (I usually don’t). No one will eat my leftovers as a pre-lunch snack. If I put something in the refrigerator, chances are it will still be there the next day, in the same portion I left it. Beautiful.

5. I can sing to myself all day!

Living alone means no one can judge you for anything you may do while alone in your apartment (unless you have thin walls). If I want to impersonate Bridget Jones singing “All By Myself,” more power to me! I can talk to myself, and no one can call me crazy. If I want to narrate an episode of Gilmore Girls, there’s no reason to feel self-conscious. Luke Danes can sound like Papa Smerf all day long at my place.

In the end, living alone means freedom from rules and judgement. It’s the Wild, Wild West of domestic life! Look out, Joe next door, I feel a song coming on…