So I’m sitting here in my closet drinking beer to suppress my anxious feelings of boredom while singing to Spoon and cleaning out old papers. I am LOVING LIFE. 

 

 

I got a flickr account, word.

 

 

Wanna see my bachelor pad? Sure ya do.

 

 

A loft has seriously always been my dream. I don’t know why. It speaks “independence” to me. And so what if I have an old leather recliner covering a massive, unknown, lumpy white stain on the carpet? Or the leg of the coffee table is positioned at a weird angle? Or the TV sits on top of a giant tupperware container? Or the carpet is fluffy and tinted with grey? It’s my space dammit, and I hate the thought of leaving it.

 

 

Note: I hate my bed. A new one will be my next major investment, as well as a comforter that actually doesn’t look like a sleeping bag.

 

 

 

 

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