Judge a man by his tablecloth?

Ever since my last relationship came apart like a Chinese motorcycle, I've found myself again basking in bachelorhood's warm womb. Oh, the signs are telescope clear: bags of empties in the kitchen, beer consumed without removal of six-pack ring, dishes reused liberally, unidentified corpses and half-masticated farm animals in the corner, newspapers scattered about. Nothing damning, just a respectable amount of self-induced squalor. I'm nesting.

It's really, really liberating, not having to care about things that, in the long run, are inconsequential. At least half the reason I ever tidy up is in anticipation of getting a little something, something, anything. Why else would a heterosexual man own tea candles? The other reason to clean-house is to avoid vermin, the bigger stuff that requires traps, nets, heavy artillery.

I'm punching the Bachelor Club Card and amassing comfort points, redeemable in future dating endeavors. There's no expiration or blackout dates, and every seat is by the window. It grew wearisome having to explain why my lava lamp didn't match the drapes, or why my pizza box was doubling as a file-folder for my tax documents. For now, I'll raise a glass to me, cut up my six-pack rings, and save the sea creatures, while preserving my happiness.