nerd-in-place

I am becoming pretty good friends with my bed. When a) I lived with just one other person (whom I was dating) and b) we were able to go places, my bed was really just where I slept. It was the place in the house that I MOST SHARED, so it wasn’t really a space to do anything more personal or solitary, you know?

Now I have two (awesome) platonic roommates, and so the reverse has become true. I don’t really hang out in our living room or other shared spaces. My roomies aren’t nerds, and they take our “aesthetic” very seriously. So, nothing in our shared space really feels like mine. My cartoon character cups are in the glass cabinets, and I’m glad they have a home among the copious plants and the other very purposeful bits of cool decor. But that space isn’t mine.

So, my bedroom is my everything now. It’s my sleep space, my office, my coffee shop, my movie theatre, my yoga studio (ha; kind of), my dining room. And my bed is my little comfy island. I usually start the day at my desk, but gradually give in to the allure of a softer space. So, around early dinnertime, I adventure the two feet over, and cozy up in my Spider-Man 2 blanket, and see where the evening takes us.

I am single now, and I sleep in a queen-sized bed alongside a stuffed penguin, walrus, and dinosaur. (I am very cool.)

Today was a fucking stressful day. I have removed my bow tie and my bra, and I am wrapped up in my Hufflepuff sweatshirt and my Spidey blanket, and I’m not really paying attention to a writing webinar that I signed up for, because that’s just life right now. I sign up for webinars and classes, and I am always on Zoom right on time, and I clock out IMMEDIATELY. I cannot focus. Cannot take a break. I am still punishing myself for crimes that were not really crimes, and sometimes when I see your name, I want to fucking scream, but who would even fucking hear me? I’m not going to do that to Waddles, Willoughby, and Spike.

(This webinar is actively making me angry, in case you were wondering.)

A portrait of a single nerd’s bed/desk/table/island, May 2020: (Picture, if you will: pink flannel unicorn sheets, a blue fleece blanket, a little Star Wars baby blanket that I use as sort of a bed table runner? Is that a thing?)

Two magazines. Runner’s World and Poets & Writers, both unread.

A new composition book, wherein I am presently taking notes on stand-up comedy purely for Good Omens AU fanfiction purposes. Like. I. Do.

A greasy Kermit the Frog plate. I ate an entire Kroger mushroom pizza tonight. I was going to only eat half, but this webinar really made me sad, and who the hell cares, right?

A book. Samantha Irby’s newest. You should read it, too.

A 4×6 2020 planner, National Parks-themed. My planner breaks my heart right now. I went through everything that was supposed to happen in April, and just wrote, “LOL, NOPE.” It’s madness in there. Thank goodness for my wall calendar.

Three pens. GOTTA BE PREPARED FOR THAT FANFIC INSPIRATION. YOU NEVER KNOW.

Two more notebooks/journals. One, a true journal, covered in swans, started back in January, too goddamn fucking earnest. The other, a rubbed-around-the-edges Hufflebook notebook from the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Filled with jokes and re-write notes and all manner of nonsense, and really, really making me want a pumpkin juice. (Always.)

(Do you want to have a slumber party yet?)

“Do you write with the same amount of productivity?” asks the friendly person on this webinar to which I am only vaguely listening.

I AM A MACHINE RIGHT NOW. I agree with the panelist: Time is meaningless, and my stomach hurts all the time, and the only thing that sort of shuts my hatred-brain off is the ability to put my fingers to these keys, to put a pen to paper, to let the words do what they will… That’s something I’ve learned lately. Fiction is actually goddamn magic. I have started stories with ONE SPECIFIC GOAL IN MIND only for the characters to do whatever the fuck they want. (I thought that was such hokey bullshit when I heard other authors say that, and I WAS WRONG. Sometimes I want Aziraphale and Crowley to bang, but they’d rather be really super sad at each other. *shrug*)

(I am actively angry. The writing rubs against the edges of it, makes it soft and manageable.)

(Spider-Man 2 was great, right?)

What am I trying to say? (I so seldom know.)

The heart of this is only ever the same thing: I think you’re doing wonderfully. And I need to tell you so over and over and over again, so that perhaps I can believe it, too. So, that I can not be disgusted by the memories of this devoured pizza, not judge the desperately dorky notes in the desperately dorky notebook, not berate myself for not really reading Runner’s World, let alone running. This is the meaning, I guess, that I’m trying to put out there. Whatever you’re doing, whatever is on your bed, you’re okay.

You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.

Sleep tight, dear ones.

 

 

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