ugly bedroom

i've been quiet because... things turn on a dime.

anyone want to come and redesign my bedroom?  the centerpiece is now one butt-ugly brown hospital bed. i remain, o my president, author of obamacare, which allowed me to receive a hospital bed with trapeze within 48 hours of the doctor ordering it, o do i remain ever grateful!

but a butt-ugly bedroom will not do.

new rugs will be necessary, because i don't want to fall off the butt-ugly brown bed onto the slick butt-ugly brown floor.

this morning, after dear fred went to a sunday morning shake-and-bake with the militant existential lesbian feminists, taking along a gourmet tuna salad with a fresh and golden loaf of bread, i challenged myself.  "self," i said...

sorry.

anyway, i cleaned the common areas we share with the castafiore and her amours, and with the hangers-on that groups such as ours attract.  mollusks. oops.  typed that out loud, i did!

in my brief period of profound laziness, the feline triumvirate has been intensively training.  dry, sculptural, free-standing hair ball sculptures tucked like hidden treasures behind furniture legs -- sublime!  a stylized swirl of hardened ocean waves, slick and seemingly splashing, reaching for the sky -- carefully presented alongside a gravity-bound fourteenth-century leather and iron virginal hope chest.  the first pieces were clearly the creation of marmy fluffy butt, and her fury was swift and fierce when my efforts to preserve her commentary on world hunger somehow fell prey to the chaotic anti-art suction of my hoover.  the watery, shellacked offering was from the suddenly shy buddy, of maine coon provenance, and he approved its destruction, seeing his arching, asiatic columns as bits of performance art that already were passé.

using the forensic skills that only advanced students of french literature (and its intertwined, inbred complications known as critics) are able to focus upon the disparate remnants of avant garde cat art, i determined that dobby, the edgiest of this feline force, had dabbled with such success in a retrospective homage to trompe-l'oeil that it will be only by chance that we discern his gastric artiface from our hooman accoutrements and clutter.

so i am back in the putrid brown bed.  i confess that it helps my body relax, that joints previously screaming at an annoying level are now making only the occasional habitual moue.

but this room... this room.  a disaster.  i offer proof:

© 2013 L. Ryan