My Space

I have a desk. My sister and I picked it up for free at a yardsale and tossed it in the back of the minivan. It sat there for a week while it rained whenever my sister was home with the van before I got to bring the thing in the apartment.  It was painted over in white by the people who gave it up so I consider that a sign to use it as a canvas and have been randomly doodling on it. since no one uses the kitchen table to actually dine at, my sister let me take one of the chairs, one that sat in my grandparents’ breakfast nook.  

The setup is squeezed into a corner of the apartment, but I have enough space to have slowly migrated my books and journals and scrap writings out here and now it is a proper writer’s desk. Well, it’s my desk, but you get the drift.  I have needed to do this for myself for some time now and have refused to help a sister out. I mean, I’ve helped others, but for some reason I have not carved out the space for myself that I need.

I am always to blame for my own downfall.

I wanted my life to be a fucking comedy, bitches!

I don’t know if there could be any possible relationship but since putting the desk and my computer here, I have been writing, getting myself back into a routine. I sit down here in the morning.  I freewrite. I read. I work. As a writer. Albeit one without pay for now.

The thing is, there’s a chair right next to my desk. A big comfy blue chair and if you are sitting in it, it’s really awkward and crowded to have someone at the desk.  It’s also usually where I end up when my shoulders start to tighten from leaning forward over the laptop. The thing about this particular chair I guess is that I’ve realized it’s sort of my spot. And I feel totally like Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory about it.

And every motherfucker who comes in my sister’s apartment seems to sit in that chair.

Despite the fact that I have my computer open and sitting on the desk, which itself is always just disorganized enough to indicate that someone is WORKING there, and despite the fact that my drink is usually there and  there’s a book of poetry or my journal in it which they have to move in order to sit down after I’ve gotten up to let them in and let my sister know she has guest, they snake my spot. They always take my spot. Even though there are three other seats in the room, all of which offer a much better view of the tv.