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Sighing, I remember I bought myself a cake at Publix—along with this bottle of wine. Even though I don’t formally celebrate my birthday, the single constant is that I use the excuse to get myself a little guilt-free treat. This year, my guilt-free treat is an entire lemon curd and vanilla cake with buttercream frosting.
The beautiful little personal cake peers at me from the kitchenette counter beyond the armrest of my couch, where my feet are propped so my newly-painted toenails can finish drying. They are alternating red and black, ending on ladybug big toes. I wiggle them, sigh, and figure I should finish this form question before I reward myself with the cake.
Perfect date.
Perfection is an unattainable standard, given that human imperfection causes the definition to perpetually shift from one moment to the next. There are several specific things I enjoy doing, but there are many people I would not enjoy doing them with. I suppose the same can be said in the opposite direction. A perfect date is the person, not the activity. If the activity must determine whether or not I enjoy myself, I’m probably with the wrong person, but if the activity would make me want to scream without the support of my company, they might just be perfect.
I double-check with good ol’ Google to make sure this question does indeed refer to the activity, not the description of the person with whom dates are partook, then I move on.
Somewhere after question twenty, I run out of wine and remember my cake, so I drag myself off the couch and snatch it. Fork primed with an entire buttercream frosting rose, I march on.
Question 34: How do you handle disagreements?
Full sugary goodness fills my mouth while I do a spot of soul searching.
When was the last time I found myself plagued by a disagreement I had to handle?
I have two friends.
Two.
And I’ve kept them around all these years because they don’t prompt unnecessary things like disagreements. There’s a right way and a wrong way to everything. Whenever we hit something that looks suspiciously like the start of a disagreement, we talk like adults until we learn what’s correct.
At…work…this method of communication is not accessible.
Because work is full of pretentious idiots.
But that’s another thing entirely.
I relay my preference for talking things out when possible, and my tendency to bottle up my frustrations when otherwise. Specifically at work. Due to all the idiots.
Disagreements, I conclude in the form, can only be resolved when all active parties are made of flesh and bone—not brick and plaster.
“This is a dang good cake,” I mumble.
Half of it has mysteriously disappeared.
So weird.
Almost as weird as these never-ending questions. Mercy.
Question 56: How much alone time do you need?
All of it. Every last drop. I juice that sucker like it’s liquid gold. Since my job is frequently unpredictable and full of surprise travel, on the blessed days when I’m in the office during the usual nine-to-five, I require the remaining eight waking hours to myself. The harrowing reality that another day comes every morning makes my recharge time painfully important. Dare I say, necessary. For survival.
I enjoy a modest singular outing with my friends every two weeks to a month. And quite often, I neglect the group chat organizing such an outing until an embarrassing amount of time has passed. The thing is, I do enjoy going out with my friends. But I never go anywhere by choice on the days that I work. And I do tend to begin dissociating at around the eight hours of socialization mark.
Huh.
I guess that means, regardless of surrounding activities, I need a perfectly reasonable eight hours a day of alone time, not counting sleep.
Smirking, I type in my answer.
To think Mom and Dad called me antisocial throughout my childhood as though being antisocial isn’t a full-time job.
Question 79: Where do you want to live?
Not here.
