Sounds like my version of hell. I want to be left alone to do the things I like, my way.

If I had to eat Franks idea of spaghetti every second week, or deal with old Beatrice telling me I missed a spot on the window ledge where a mote of dust had landed, I’d kill myself right there on the spot.

I’m fine with community, but I don’t want it forced into my personal space.