the weird thing about having a studio, and maybe especially since i really don't have any furniture to speak of, is that this whole place is pretty much like every bedroom i've ever had, except for the fact that there's a kitchen attached.
there's nowhere for guests to lounge while i change or make my bedroom nicer (read: hide things).
there's no separation between public and private, really, once you come in the door.
when the hot thai food delivery guy comes to the door, he can see that i have empty bottles everywhere, and the candles sitting haphazardly along the floor.
if you came in, you'd know everything about me, i guess. pink rug already dirty. empty glasses and half-full ashtray. b.o. bar near the front door so i don't forget to put it on before i leave.
wooden body models set to crucifixion and prayer, respectively. half finished canvases set against the wall. a big plastic cup with crappy brushes in it. flattened boxes next to my bed.
a coffee table with tulips, a magazine i'll never read and burned down candle ends saved for if i ever decide to make my own. bra thrown over the exerbike. socks in bunches at the end of the bed, pushed off while i sleep. chinese calendar from the shitty chinese place across the street from my work. boxes of books and way too many cds in the closet. no clothes hung up, just in piles on top of empty boxes waiting to be taken out for recycling.
i can live like this forever, i bet. a solitary room meant for nobody really but me.
this place is really my bed room, and on the outside is just a hallway, and other people living whom i never see.
studio living is weird. i think about the man who lived here before me. i want to know how he had it set up. i wonder if he had a couch or an area for "entertaining". the most i know about him is that he used to be a chainsmoker. the landlord said that he had to put on three layers of paint to cover up the residue.
i still get mail for him. the student loan people are looking for him like crazy.
