I’ve been inundated with house guests lately.

That’s not even true. I’ve had a few guests over the past couple of weekends, and I’m going to have a few more in August. But the thought of hosting anyone, even my own mother and even just overnight, stresses me out so much that any kind of request for my hospitality makes me feel like I am going to have to give up my first-born child to appease the zombie hordes.

And I would do it, too. I would do anything to avoid hours of idle chitchat in front a TV with my heart humming as I mentally calculate who needs more wine, whether anyone wants popcorn, and when the fuck these people in my house would go to bed so I don’t have to talk to them anymore.

My home is my cave. When no one is there but me and my boyfriend, I lounge in my sweatpants on the sofa, reading, drinking wine, and making sexy jokes. When he’s not home, I stand in front of the open freezer in my underwear, eating his ice cream out of the container, farting, and scratching the backs of my legs with my toenails.

The author as a guest in her brother’s home.

I don’t like it when people come over because I have to stay dressed, use a plate, pretend like I give a shit that there are dirty dishes in the sink, pretend like it’s not ridiculous to drink coffee or tea at night (night is for wine, people!), and apologize for my cats shedding everywhere.

It’s never as bad as I think it’s going to be, though. Most of the time, my guests do the dishes, and I let them, because I’d rather not. And the ones that don’t actually arrive with their own food will often insist on cooking me a meal, or at least paying for one. And I let them, because again, I’d rather not. My favorite guests are the ones who bring their own GPS and really just want a free place to crash (sometimes they bring their own towels). I’m always a little disappointed when they don’t want to eat dinner with me, but then I remember I can have chips and salsa for dinner (again) without being judged.


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