Hobo Chic

I’m moving on Saturday, and I am going to have the most ridiculous-looking apartment ever. The apartment itself is pretty neat — I keep clinging to anything remotely unique about it, from the hobbit-like entrance to the freaking huge hall closet to the retro-diner kitchen floor. My stuff is the problem. Until recently I was only worried about getting bookshelves, because the ratio of books to shelves needs some balancing (suggestions that I get rid of books will be met with looks of horror). Now that’s more or less taken care of, and I’m suddenly aware that I have no other furniture aside from the crap my parents want out of their basement. And since they’re helping me move, not taking this furniture is not an option. Crappy blue recliner? Check! Wood contraption vaguely labeled “entertainment center”? Already in the truck. What I don’t have, however, is a bed. Or a couch. The main elements of the main rooms of my future home will be, for the time being, a borrowed air mattress and, oh God, the hideous blue recliner. Hmmm. And another thing: I don’t have, nor do I plan to get, a television. I do everything on the Hodgman (that’s what I call my computer). So at what am I going to aim all my furniture (that is, the recliner, the papasan, and the video rocker — no normal chairs allowed)?

Oh, well. These are fun problems to have, and anyway they pale in comparison to the thought of my parents driving a trailer on a freeway. Stay off the road on Saturday.

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