My brother came over today to work on my computer and to help set up this new blog you are looking at. I figured I better move it now before the cult following really gets started. I’m picking out Kool-Aid flavors as you read. Anyway, my dogs are always assholes when someone first comes over. They calm down after a bit, but while they were hyper and we were having to fight them off while cursing them momentarily, I told him we could just go in my bedroom and lock them out. My brother was in my room for two seconds before he says, “You’re room looks like a fucking child’s room.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Look around. Hula hoops, jump ropes, homemade bucket drums, a bicycle, Bob Marley pictures, a fish tank, should I go on?”
“No. No you shouldn’t. I’m a fucking child,” I say laughing at his valid argument.
I like to think of myself as free spirited. I also have a pair of roller skates in my closet, but he didn’t see those. I’ve thought about adulting my room. I’ve thought about getting rid of that second box spring on the floor and getting an actual bed frame, but why? Bed frames, although sophisticated, are made for married people who don’t fuck. Or at least in my head they are, because if you are having a lot of sex, you definitely need more than a little metal bed frame. Otherwise, you won’t have a bed frame for long because it’ll be broken. Plus, I like my bucket drum and my jump ropes that I never use. I may one day, so I keep them. And I like the low key ambiance that is my bedroom. It’s my happy place. It’s where I go to unwind, to relax, and to write. If my bedroom is the standard upon which people judge my maturity, then I guess I am still a child.
RouletteWeekend 