Less than 24 hours of living alone and already the books are mad at me. Why should she get all the furniture, they’re asking themselves. They’ve taken over the leather couch, no doubt inspired by the example of the foreigners I brought in from the library–mannerless infidels who get drunk and lie around open-faced like they own the place. Now they’re starting to spread to the red couch too. Some of them are eating at the dining room table; a few are making friends on the nightstand. One or two pioneers are even examining what the kitchen has to offer.
Seeing the success of the books, the clothes started clamoring to leave the closet. They’re getting cozy with the couch books; they’re seeing how they like being worn by chairs instead of people; and some of the dirtier ones are having sex in a pile by the door.
Only the shoes are going about things in proper military fashion. They’ve organized; they’re dangerous. They wait until the lights go out and then form lines across doorways to trip me up in the middle of the night when I get out of bed to close the windows or to make sure the rest of the world is still there.
So far I can handle the attacks, but the throw pillows are starting to look hostile and I’m getting a little nervous. Still, everything should be fine. I just have to pray that the CDs keep squabbling and don’t unite under one rule; as soon as I hear the first notes of Abbey Road I’ll know it’s all over for me.