Welcome To My Bed

What I think about on the day I get my new bed.

I am tired of floors and couches, tired of the armrest of my car pressing into my face. I want furniture again. I like the idea of having all of my things in my car, moving around with me, but it's not a practical choice, especially when three trips isn't nearly enough to get me moved in. I got my keys at 2 o'clock in the morning, banged up and down the back stairs with two typewriters, a sleeping bag, the lucky cat for the kitchen, and a bunch of clothes I can't hang up yet because my hangers are sitting in Wayne's garage. I'm pretty sure the neighbors already want to murder me and it's not been 24 hours. This afternoon, Cass gets back, I pick up a U-Haul, and we get real serious about moving. I can't wait to cook my first meal in my lime green kitchen. I can't wait to buy a cookie jar that moos or some other garage sale nonsense, just because I can, just because I have my very own place to live now. This is a much bigger deal than I expected it to be. I have no internet, no TV, nothing in the place but boxes and bags just yet, but already it feels like mine. Pop Tarts on the counter, a cigarette clipped and left on the porch. Until September, this will be home. A claw-foot bath tub and every hole in the walls. I am in love. We have a porch. A PORCH. The magnitude of this overwhelms. I want to shout from our porch that tonight will be the first night of my life that I will sleep in a bed that I bought, in a house that I pay rent for. This is good, this adult stuff. Especially when I know I'm going to treat it all like summer camp. Those Pop Tarts are 'smores flavor, and I ate fro-yo for dinner last night. I want Cass to get here already so we can live like children, buy ice pops, have kitchen dance parties, make too much noise. Oh. And jump on my new bed. Cos y'all know that needs to take place.