As of this Saturday, I will have officially lived alone in an apartment for nine weeks. Despite this alarming stat and the implied lack of adult supervision, I'm somehow still alive, much to the amazement of my parents, my friends and myself.

Not only am I still walking and breathing, but I would go so far as to say I'm actually in good physical health. Relatively speaking, of course, since "good" health for me means my heart is only three or four Twinkies away from nuclear meltdown.

Greater still is that, against all odds, no emergency services have been summoned to my residence yet. Even after using my oven and assorted kitchen cutlery, I haven't set anything on fire or lost any limbs.

And although I won't be waxing my big, bald head and taking the reins from Mr. Clean anytime soon, federal inspectors have twice "failed to find sufficient evidence of impending widespread bacterial infection." At least, that's what appeal states for the record.

Aside from the not dying aspect, I've found living alone a spectacular affair. There's no fighting about what movie to watch or video game to play, no challenges over what television show will cause the least brain damage. It's like a big fun park, where there are no lines and all the rides are roller coasters. Jerry-rigged roller coasters, held together with duct tape and wishful thinking maybe, but fast and awesome nonetheless.

Admittedly, all is not bliss in my little slice of paradise. I suspect my system of dishwashing, which is based solely on smell, is not the most effective method of keeping my shelves stocked with usable dishes. And unless my shower curtain has adopted the homeland security department's ridiculous color coded threat measure, I really need to invest in some bathroom cleaning supplies.

On the culinary front, the war against hunger isn't going too well either. It's not for lack of food, but, much like a GOP convention, it lacks diversity.

As it stands now, I only know about seven different recipes, and six of those involve changing the kind of cheese placed between two slices of grilled bread.

After all this time, I figured my skills would have evolved beyond mixing cereal with milk, but as it stands, I can barely follow the instructions for making a batch of muffins.

I'm also not adjusting too well to buying food for just one person. My shopping cart's either filled to the brim or I'm living on rice and stardust.

For example, I had so much food in my place a few weeks ago, that one of those ready-to-eat bags of salad I had optimistically purchased sat totally ignored for days and days. By the time I had worked my way through the mounds of other, equally nutritious and wholesome items in stock, the salad had gone bad. Shocking, to think that I could have forgotten about those healthy, leafy greens sitting there waiting for digestion.

A bigger problem is my inability to master the art of multitasking. I can barely manage to fumble my way through a main dish of pork chops or whatever, but add a secondary item that needs attention like asparagus or corn and I'm done for. I don't know what scurvy looks like at the moment, but check back in a week or so.

While I've lost a few battles in the kitchen, I have pulled out a surprise victory or two. Desperate for something different one day, I threw a bunch of tasty ingredients (chicken, corn, cream of celery soup and asparagus) together and baked it, hoping whatever came out would be edible or at least non-communicable. Amazingly, it worked, and I had three meals full of chicken-flavored goodness.

Sadly, the name I gave to this Frankenfood is unfit for publishing, but you can read all about it once I've compiled all of my monstrosities into a book titled "I'm Not a Chef: Recipes that Could Kill You." They'll probably think I'm kidding too.

I also made a tasty meat sauce to accompany some spaghetti a few weeks back. Granted, it was literally just hamburger meat, sausage and a can of Ragu sauce, but Rome didn't collapse in a day.

Unfortunately, I was so ecstatic about the sauce that I suffered from an acute lapse in rudimentary logic and decided that draining my spaghetti worked best with my hand directly under the strainer. Whoops.

No matter how much filth piles up on the floor or dishes are moldering in the sink, there will always be my giant bed. Compared to all of my previous night time companions, this bed is the size of an ocean liner. I could break dance in it if I were so inclined and based on how ruffled the sheets are some mornings, I might actually have done that.

Built for a queen, fit for a king, but housing a court jester, this majestic work of art had me before hello. Which is good because beds can't talk.

So mom and dad, if you're reading this, take heart: I'm eating well, sleeping well and haven't been evicted yet. But maybe we should play it safe and not rent out my old room for a few more weeks. Okay?