Working from home is comfortable.

There are days when I crawl out from behind my computer at 4pm and take inventory. I’m going on 50 hours in the same holey shirt and shorts. I have a permanent layer of gunk across my front teeth, and my hair is so greasy I can put it in a ponytail without a rubber band. I’ve worn my fuzzy socks all day. The good news is I’m already dressed for bed.

There are days when I work from my bed. I sit against the wall with my feet tucked under my dog and my blanket, and I quickly bring food back to the mattress so I spend as little amount of time on my feet as possible. I switch positions every two hours to prevent bedsores.

I sit on the floor, on the couch, in my chair, slouched and typing. I stand straight at my bookcase and type. Wherever I want to work, I work.

I haven’t worn makeup in weeks. I don’t mind this.

And I hardly ever wear a bra.

Working from home can be depressing.

I hardly ever wear a bra.

Sometime on the third day of the no bra I realize that not wearing a bra has somehow been the gateway to not showering and eating exclusively hot pockets.

I don’t talk to people, except for my mom. I call my mom more than I should. My mom has her own people to call, but I call exclusively her. I’m not sure why I don’t call my dad or my siblings. My mom probably finds me more charming than other people do, and let’s face it, no one’s here to find me charming. So I call and I tell her about my day: any neighbor run-ins and what I ate and what movie I just watched. (She loves me.)

Mostly, working from home is depressing when I’m depressed.

Working from home is never as depressing as working in a cubicle.

I don’t cry daily in my cubicle. I don’t take copious notes on how angry I am that everyone seems to only want to talk about the weather. It’s California! There’s only one kind of weather!

“Did you see that cloud yesterday? That was scary!” Excuse me while I go adjust my computer chair five times and sob until my tears fill my empty filing cabinets.

Working from home is dynamic.

I can work from anywhere. On days I want to be around people, I stake my claim at one of the independent coffee shops in Malibu: Starbucks, Starbucks, or Starbucks. I’ve yet to try this new place. I think it’s called Starbucks. It’s supposed to be super gourmet.

I work from Pepperdine’s library some days. I even put my work up on their dry-erase board because it makes me feel very important.

I dance while I work. I really do. I dance quite often I’m realizing. I’m not good at dancing. My body moves too quickly and awkwardly, and let’s get real, I mostly dance with my hands. But I feel dance. Does that make sense? It’s something I can explore on my lunch break at home.

Working from home is the best way to work.

Seriously. I hated working for the corporate world. I hated the drive. I hated the small talk. I hated working next to the same people every day and never actually getting to know them. I hated eating lunch with the same people who never laughed at my jokes. I hated feeling that people were watching me, stifling me. I hated watching my cubicle plant slowly die in a grey box without any sunlight. I hated knowing that my heart wasn’t far behind: slowly dying in this place.

I love not slowly dying. I mean, I suppose we’re all dying, but I feel more like I’m living at home. I love dressing for work and not dressing for work, and I love that I have that choice. I love my healthy interactions with co-workers. I love that I get to work with the sun shining on my feet. I love that I get to work from my desk, my bed, and my floor all in the same day. I love that I get to talk to myself and laugh at myself. That’s what’s so wonderful about it. I get to be myself at home.

Working from home is spending the whole day as myself.

It’s typing on the floor in a favorite t-shirt, leaning against an unmade bed and laughing because I look cross-eyed.