Oh, slow day.

I am probably the only person above the age of twelve who gets depressed when her parents are out of town. Call me dependent, needy, clingy, whatever. I don't particularly think I'm any of those (but who knows, sometimes you know yourself the least). Actually, I'm more likely to describe myself with the polar opposite: independent, headstrong, a singular organism likely to whack away at any poor guest hoping for a symbiotic relationship. So my parents have been gone a week, and what, life sucks? Am I just throwing a passive inner tantrum at being left behind on a trip to Thailand? Is it the dirty dishes that pile nightly in the sink? The groceries to shop for, the food to prepare, the responsibility of myself being piled solely on my shoulders?
All there is to do is to do everything. Each and every thing slowly, individually, methodically, silently. Each plate needs to be scrubbed clean and rinsed, dried off, and returned to its place. Stacking the pieces together, tucking the whole away. Behind closed doors.

Because when my parents are away, that leaves me more vulnerably alone.