my future living room

    I love putting words together that just sound like sludge and not possible so when I say this you are going to have to read the rest: I want my living room next year to be cabin-boho-chic. Seems conflicting when you think about it too much but the green couch that Eatai's sister is paying for with her insurance payout fits all of those descriptive words. The other day after Malika expressed interest in the Facebook marketplace piano in Oak Creek- in which I already pictured us driving on the Milwaukee highway, specifically the part where people go high speeds on that curve- I already imagined us being high class, almost elderly and pretentious in a manner. We had some familiar faces in the room, obviously alcohol everywhere, and someone talking or crying out loud too much. I thought the whole night about how lovely the lighting in our living room is and how someone is on the edge of ruining my beloved perfect carpet. This rug is a version of a fantasy in my head, a perfectly describing rug, and most importantly a message to my mother: I can learn to keep something white clean. I want to have a gorgeous cream colors to evaporate the room into my carefree paradise where I am not on edge thinking about how this is white. The green will constantly divide the warmth that will be occupied by the white, I love perfect contrasts. I was describing to Malika earlier that I would love to design clothes but my pattern collision skills are incredibly weak. Thus, why I am hesitant about what I physically want the place to look like. I only can see the colors and not the patterns or shapes involved. 

    I know what I want it to feel like though. I know I need it to have a completely different atmosphere that I have never experienced before, but also have moments of uncanny valley whenever I take an edible. I want to irritate people (even more) when I say that I know this feeling of this mechanism being pulled from something from somewhere else, a reference ville fuckfest that is told by a preoccupied narrator. The green couch needs to tell me to lay on it and cry, sit on the papasan beige chair (which I haven't stopped talking about wanting from a year ago) with the crochet blanket (expensive green yarn from Joanne's and a huge hook) and watching the sun reflect on the siding from the house next to us. Maybe I'll even think it's the safest part of the house when Eatai and Malika enviably leave me alone for the weekend. I will have to invite Elliot over to get drunk and watch horrible movies with to feel comforted. 

    Cuts on my feet will feel smooth and definite on the rug, it was fucking expensive so it must feel good even on my pain. I will stop questioning if I should move into my bed in a half hour or not. I want my friends to look happy. Something along those lines.