Is it bad for your female “area” to sit in bed with an ever-growing-warmer laptop on crooked knees?
Because, damn y’all, my loins are sweating.
I need room to write. A space to call my own, not shared with research and online tools and quippy marketing copy like, “Think you can’t afford IT? Think again.” I have precious little space, the mid-section of my compact, loft-like-three-story laid out in a strategic grid of home office, living area and galley kitchen (“dining area" is the steamer trunk in front of the couch, which also sometimes serves as hunched over writing space).
If I removed the faux-leather cigar chair in the top level master, I’d open a corner where, perhaps, I could place a thrift store vanity or small desk. But like a TV in the bedroom, is that toying with the love and lust life?
The basement is strictly off limits. Finished or un-, I can’t beckon the creative in below ground space, a bit too Unabomber crafting his manifesto. The basement holds laundry, dusty work out equipment (never used) and crap that doesn’t fit in livable space. My gift-wrapping room if you will.
Excuses, excuses, right? Diablo Cody wrote the screen play to Juno sitting in a Starbucks in a Target (talk about the genius emerging from vanilla corporate frosting). I can do this anywhere. Even at 6:14 a.m. in a short pink nightie and under the covers.