Sunday, December 9, 2012

Fuck-It-Yourself

 

 

When your weekend consists of driving an hour to spend too much money on a "transparent red oxide" couch made of cardboard, an ancient form of velour and sturdy styrofoam (circa 1970); watching movies on your failing laptop propped on a stool because your $30 DVD player suddenly decides to only play the trailers of Redbox movies; driving around for 3 hours only to ditch the fabric line at JoAnn fabrics because the holiday crafters make you want to chuck a garden gnome at their overly-spirited heads; and soberly leave the Home Depot without lumber because you've realized you assumed the coffee table you'd planned to create would just magically build itself; I think this is the only thing that could cheer a halfhearted adult such as myself up.

 

(Is that enough semi-colons for you?)

 

If you are spitting your Velveeta cheese and Rotel dip at the screen right now, then I assume you understand my frustration with all that resembles "DIY" and "Home Decor." I think I'm nearing the end of the one week limit I seem to have in which I care about how my wall hangings "open up the room." God bless The Mother, who has a great way of pointing out all my ineptitudes in home-space management while simultaneously doing it for me. Don't mind me, I'll be drinking in the corner. If I fall into the couch, just pretend it was termites.

 

I swear I'll start writing writing like I care again soon. Just give me some time to go to the grocery store, first. Is anybody else aware of how valuable a parent's fridge is, right now? GO HUG YOUR PARENT'S FRIDGE.

 

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