tavie.com

I was given a yellow bath towel for Christmas. I already had a nice, big, fluffy bath towel with my name embroidered on it, "TAVIE", in big block letters, but that had long ago become public property. So I thought, here's a chance for me to have a towel of my own that no one will use and drop on the dirty floor and leave it there.

Of course it doesn't work that way but I keep begging her to please at least hang up my towel. First I beg her not to use it, and then I beg her to hang it up. I begged her at least five times last week.

All right. I've cooled off, and the airing of dirty family laundry is not the mature answer, so I'm editing it slightly.

And they ask me over and over again why I have to spend every weekend at Mint Manor, effectively abandoning them for half the week. (You don't love us anymore! You make us feel bad! Why do you want to spend all your time away from us?) Why? Because this place is a warehouse. Because I can't move-- I literally cannot walk down the hall or through the living room-- without causing an avalanche of books or papers or other crap.

They blew a wad of cash on this put-it-together-yourself entertainment unit to house the tv we just bought. The old unit was falling apart, and too small for the tv. So they threw out the old one, stacked the mountains of books and videos and tchotchkes around the limited living room space, and bought a DYI unit for the tv. Then they broke the unit before they could put it together. So now there are-- there have for weeks been-- boards and panes of glass just leaning against everything-- the couch, the walls, the stacks of books. I can't sit on the couch because it's covered with boards and I'm tired of moving them. There is no place in this apartment where I can sit. Possibly my bed, if it's not occupied (and thrown into disarray) by someone with her wet ass wrapped in my wet towel.

I need to get out of here.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 7:39 PM | shower me with attention