My apartment is at a standstill, still waiting for the couch to arrive. Rumor has it, it’s in Vegas playing the slots.
When I look into the living room, the term space takes on all new meaning thinking, hey..maybe I should rent it out, or plant a few trees.
I’m not used to relying on other people, issue number one. Efficiency is my middle name so this decorator’s limbo I’m in feels strange, like I’m marinating in hot sauce.
Focus on the positive, it’s been suggested. Since when do you care about furniture anyway?
Now…now that I’ve won more than the Home Jeopardy Game, and to be quite honest, it pisses me off. I don’t want to give a shit about inanimate objects that, let’s face it, couldn’t give a shit about me. I kinda miss my beat-up desk with the grape juice stains along the front, this recent acquisition being Queen Elizabeth in comparison.
THEY ARE JUST THINGS.
How did I become so fucking legitimate?
There was something to be said for being Bonnie Parker.