Autobiographically Too Flat

It's not like he dosen't know when I'm coming home, every day. And it's not like he doesn't have a room of his own. I'll admit, there's no door separating his space from the rest of the apartment, but he did put up quite a nice sheet to obfuscate the view of any goings on inside. And it's not like he's 16 and I'm definitely not his mother. So tell me this: Is there any reason I need to come home from work and walk in on my housemate watching "Teen Muff #5" and (embarrassed cough) pleasuring himself? I don't think so. And on the couch, too. Such a disaster.

I cooked (really cooked) for the first time in the apartment last night. It actually went surprisingly well (except for finding that my 3 lb bad of salad had been sitting in the fridge for too long and had to be dumped. That actually sucked). But the sauce went swimmingly. And now I have SO much red sauce, I don't know what to do with it. Best problem ever. I'm thinking I should make a lasagna and chicken parmesean. I'll still have a considerable amount left over to put on pasta. Such a good use of my time, making that sauce.

I was considering having a dinner party at my place this weekend (you were all going to be invited) but I realized that I have no table, only two forks, and a questionable number of plates. So that may have to wait. Anyway, I've got things to do this week, so company just isn't an option.