A place to write.
I don’t think I’m unusual in my undying adoration for The Google. Whenever Sean and I are arguing about something completely inconsequential (cough allthefuckingtime cough), he’ll whip out his smartphone and shout “TO THE CLOUD!” before searching the interwebz for the answer.
What’s the weather like in Huntsville Alabama? I’ll type. Where’s the closest Thai restaurant? When is it going to stop snowing? Why is Starbucks coffee so goddamn expensive? How young is too young for a knee replacement? Who’s that blonde guy in that show about lawyers?
And you know as well as I do that The Google has ALL THE FUCKING ANSWERS. All of ’em.
So for today’s prompt, I approached The Google with trepidation. Today I’m supposed to blog about my ideal writing space, and I’m not so sure The Google can tell me what I like best. Worth a shot, though, right? I’m up for shortcuts at every juncture.
I started typing a place to write, but before I could finish, The Google tried to guess what I was looking for:
Oh, The Google. You so funny. I might need to bury some strangers later, though, so hold on to that thought please.
Well, with that out of the way, I suppose I need to suck it up and think for myself on this one. Thanks for nothin’, Google.
My Ideal Writing Space
My living room. The temperature is exactly 69 degrees, partly because it’s the perfect temperature and partly because that number always makes me laugh like a 12-year-old. The room is spotless and it smells so fresh and so clean clean. No candles are burning because one of my cats (the stupid orange one) has caught himself on fire no less than three times during his short life on this earth, and that shit stresses me out. I don’t want to be worrying about my cat going up in flames like a dried out Christmas tree.
Whenever I damn well please. Stop asking so many questions.
Fuzzy slippers. Flannel pajama pants. One of Sean’s already-worn t-shirts that still smells a little bit like his shampoo and aftershave. My pink leopard print bathrobe.
Cheetos. Since this is my fantasy, the Cheetos do not leave the gross orange residue on my fingertips, which would surely hinder my ability to write.
Super strong coffee topped with Bailey’s.
Lucky Charms and 2% milk. Spoons and bowls will be provided.
Poems. Beautiful artistic poems about cats and feminism and Patrick Kane.
On Heavy Rotation:
Fiona Apple. Toadies. Joni Mitchell. The xx.
Maybe some Reba McEntire, but don’t tell anybody.
RSVP by Monday, Feb. 4 or I’ll hunt you down like a dog.
I am participating in a month-long writing challenge during February, so you lucky bastards get to enjoy a daily post until the end of the month!