The Problem with Cohabitation is that it Requires You to Cohabitate

“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.” – A Room of One’s Own

I’m the Pol Pot of duvet sharing. I will forcibly relocate the sheets from right under your butt by 1 am, and I don’t need to raise you from the mattress to do so. I’m committed enough to achieve it one millimetre at a time. I don’t know why I need the entire duvet. I just do, but I steal it sexily, so I believe I’m worth it. (You do not get a say in this. I am always worth it.)

My sleep habits are a massacre of sleep mumbling and ball sack kicking. My feet and hands are made of dry ice, and I will put them all over you because every man needs to be felt up while he’s dreaming of England. Do you think Jon Snow whines about being cold? No. No, he doesn’t.


I also crave blow jobs the instant I wake up. This is an excellent quality in a woman, especially when she habitually wakes up at 2 am. I also won’t go to sleep until I’m 1, 000% sure there’s no more sex to be had, and if you can’t sleep by the light of my lust and a lamp bulb, it’s probably best you chase me onto the couch.

I’ve lived with three men in my lifetime, and I hated living with two of them. I adored them all. I truly did, but my living habits are as anti-social and quirky as my sleep routines. Solitude is not a luxury for me, but a necessity. Man Three needed as much alone time as I did, so we lived together well. He got to retreat to his game of Doom whenever he liked, and I got to declare the study a Me Zone at any time of the day. He also tolerated my dictatorship of the bed, probably because he liked 2 am blowjobs and didn’t require ridiculous things like sheets.

I’m an introvert. I energise by being alone, and that makes living together draining. I’ve rarely deferred to traditions like cohabitation because there are few luxuries better than having your own duvet. When I hear the word “marriage,” the first things that come to mind are the two hours of uninterrupted daily reading that I’d have to give up to wear a wedding ring. I don’t take my space for granted, even though I’ve had a home all to myself for a decade.

Writing creeps into every second of my life, and it requires a thousand silences. Every one of them carries its own poem, and the noise of someone else’s life steals them all. Few extroverts understand the tragedy of that.

I don’t need much more than a room of my own. If I ever meet an introvert with a passion for 2 am sex, icy hands, and a room of his own, maybe I’ll change my solitary ways.

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