One Thing Left
My room has stuff. This is a big change.
Not two weeks ago was my room bare, walls and floors included, except for that space crowed by piles of Bankers Box. I slept on a small, blue futon — small into to cram in my closet if I felt like it — and Interneted from using borrowed stools.
Gone are the stools — one of them, at least. Gone are the Bankers Boxes — to a spare corner, at least. Gone is my futon — at least, it would be if all this furniture didn’t take up all my potential bed space.
I have the humdrum stuff you might expect in the residence of the average responsible-young-adult-now-doing-his-own-taxes. One computer desk, because my sister doesn’t need it, anymore. One small-drawered dresser courtesy of my stepmom. One metal file cabinet, grey-green sheet metal that looks like it came courtesy of Orwell.
Not only do I now have two tall-but-small pine bookshelf, twins since manufacture, but the dad and stepmom added on, for flavor, one thickly-shelved particle board bookcase made to look like dark oak.
Oh, the fun I’ll have filling these bookshelves.