Lately I’ve been spending lots of time alone, and mostly it’s been by choice. In October I moved into my own apartment. It’s the first time I’ve had my own place since the spring of 1997. The biggest problem with this building is that the walls are too thin — my upstairs neighbor works nights, and often when he comes home he plays videogames and watches TV in his room all night long. His bedroom is directly above my own. I can hear it. It makes me want to scream.

Nevertheless, it’s nice to have my own apartment, with my own phone line, my own bathroom, and my own kitchen. I can cook if I want, I can go to Subway if I want. I can do what I want. Alone. About two weeks ago, I came home from work and made chili. It takes about an hour and a half to make. While cooking and then eating it, I watched lots of TV — a “Seinfeld” rerun, “Dawson’s Creek” (which I rarely watch, and when I do, it’s so I can see the gay guy), and “The West Wing.” I ate and ate and ate and watched and watched and watched. You know what? It was wonderful.

This past fall, I was hung up on one guy for three and a half months until I finally realized that he was never going to be interested in anything more than friendship. So one of my New Year’s resolutions was to meet new people and start dating again. Well, I’ve been on several dates this month, and I’ve come to realize that I don’t think I want a relationship right now after all. Like some other things, a relationship seems so much better in theory than in practice. I’m so much enjoying my solitude. I have friends, and I can get sex; what more do I need right now?