The Coco Puffs are clearly mine. I wrote my name on every side of the box in marker, pressing hard for emphasis. The first marker I chose was lacking ink strength so I added extra autographs in different colors for additional security.

I live in a community of five full-time volunteers. When I say community I mean an “intentional,” anti-capitalist, composting, consensus-decision-making commune. We have a very limited grocery budget but we share cooking responsibilities and manage to get by with little extra food between meals.

Hence my problem: I am hungry. Although I am not the brawniest member of the household I seem to be the only one with an appetite, and our pasta/bean combos don’t always do it for me. I find myself fantasizing about brand name foods and pre-packaged snacks. Cheez-itz, Pepperidge Farm cookies, Thomas’s English Muffins – the original nooks and crannies! And sometimes I capitulate – actually often. I use part of my weekly $21 discretionary spending to buy food. This week I bought the Coco Puffs and generic orange juice, which tastes heavenly. I chose the amount of pulp I prefer without consulting the rest of the community to reach a consensus, and it felt good. Sometimes I want to make my own pulp decisions, damn it! None of that pulp-free swill for me. If you even think about touching my pulp-included citrus beverage you might as well be taking your life in your hands. Like dangerous predators I include warning signs as to my wrath in the form of bright, varied marker scribbles.

And no I’m not sharing. I have learned the lesson of supply and demand and my orange juice is a hot commodity, baby. It ain’t free. I labeled it, and the label is law around here. I am not above drawing lines on the carton to make certain no one pilfers. In fact, after living in community, I’m not above anything. Hiding and hoarding personal belongings and food has become commonplace. But please don’t blame the ants and mice on me.

In the past year a new figure has entered my life, or perhaps I should say he has reintroduced himself. Adam Smith, once my arch-nemesis, has offered to buy me a pint (he can afford better than Pabst Blue Ribbon) and we have reconciled. The pro-communism scales of my youth have fallen from my eyes.

These are the results of my commune living. My generosity of spirit is gone. In bygone days I was never possessive of my food in this way. My last roommate and I bought groceries without keeping track of who paid for what and I shared everything with her. But this communal living, contrary to its intention, has made me less willing to share. When everything is held in common I sometimes just want one thing that is my very own (hence the overzealous Puffs labeling). I want to be able to indulge myself. It has extended beyond food. I only take baths now, justifying it to the others by saying that it uses less water. Really I just want to luxuriate for increasingly long periods of time in the tub, the bathroom being the only private space in the house. I go to coffee shops and order tea – the cheapest thing on the menu – asking the baristas to refill the cup over and over again with hot water. It’s my tea, and I’m going to suck the life out of it to extend my customer experience as long as possible.

Community living has made me selfish and petty. Karl Marx never warned me about that. But my new buddy, Adam – he’s a true friend. He tells it like it is.