I’ve discovered this new thing. It’s called eating at home. It can happen in one’s own home, as per Wednesday night, when Heather came over to my apartment (“Cozy,” she said sincerely, but we all know that “tiny” and “woefully bachelor-esque” live right next door to “cozy” in Adjective Land). I made pasta with bell peppers roasted on an open gas-stove flame, a technique I stole from AK, who stole it from Meg, who I think was just born knowing shit like that. Heather brought wine, but we soon discovered that I don’t own a bottle opener. The good news is that apparently I don’t do a lot of drinking alone. Or I just drink things with screw tops alone. Eating At Home can also happen at someone else’s home, as per last night, when Meehan, AK and I gathered at Nicole’s new apartment in a building that bills itself as “Casa Overlanda” (“Returning to the original Spanish name,” Meehan observed). We got tasty-cheap takeout from Sunin and crowded together with glasses of Charles Shaw (but the new, fancy-ish Beaujolais!) on Nicole’s balcony, which overlooks an alley and some other people’s balconies.
Then we watched some horrifically bad zombie porn.
I know, you’re thinking, “By ‘horrifically bad,’ you mean ‘really great in an ironic way,’ right?” No, I don’t, and I refuse to go into too much detail for fear of resurrecting troubling images. Suffice it to say that it wasn’t so much zombie porn as porn, then zombie comic relief, then more porn, then more zombie comic relief. What is the point of zombie porn if you don’t get to see any actual zombie-on-zombie action? Although there was one great dance scene, which was played as seductive but was about as seductive as the “Go Greased Lightnin’” number in Grease, and I would be willing to let that scene wear the “so bad it’s good” crown.
All this is to say, I’m enjoying this time in my life where I’m kind of a grownup who drinks wine on balconies, and kind of a kid who giggles at zombie porn and gets excessively giddy over alcohol I don’t have to pay for. There was a very good episode of How I Met Your Mother about this late-twenty-something phenomenon. And I mean genuinely good, not ironically good.
I’ve discovered this new thing. It’s called eating at home. It can happen in one’s own home, as per Wednesday night, when Heather came over to my apartment (“Cozy,” she said sincerely, but we all know that “tiny” and “woefully bachelor-esque” live right next door to “cozy” in 
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btw i bought fun home yesterday. so far good stuff, if slightly depressing.