《The Interim》Saturday April 11, 2020

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ETSY. Why didn’t I think of this shit before?

Not only did I find numerous second-hand furniture dealers, I found precisely the armchair and sofa I had envisioned. Well, almost. The chair is admittedly a bit over-the-top with some sort of stylized, blue jungle-print, but the shape of it is very satisfying - rolled back, curving wooden arms and legs, etc etc. I can forgive a bit of maximalist Chinoiserie in this situation since I’m sure I can try my hand at re-covering it at some point (famous last words).

The loveseat is actually a settee WHICH is slightly more froofy than I was originally going for but damn it if it isn’t the cutest piece of furniture I’ve ever seen. It, too, has a bit of a rolled back, rolled arms, and curvy little feet. The seller apparently reupholstered it so the fabric is more of a stripy beige and it should look fantastic next to the armchair.

The little clawed feet, though. I might die.

I should get them both in approximately three weeks (hopefully). In the meantime, I painted the desk and bookshelf last night and they should only need one more coat so praise baby Jesus, I might actually have a somewhat furnished apartment next week. The thought is making me substantially happier than it should, but I haven’t had anything else to look forward to so I don’t care.

I still haven’t made much progress on The Book. I purchased a couple of romance ebooks to try and find some inspiration but I can’t seem to get past the fact that the project reminds me of life prior to the break-up. The whole thing kind of started as a joke between Russ and I (even though it was technically my idea).

I still want to write something, though. I can’t draw or sculpt or anything - writing is really my only creative outlet. I told myself that I’ll give the first draft another shot once I have my desk and can play around with the typewriter, but I think I’m just procrastinating and will never actually do it.

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I do enjoy daydreaming about becoming a New York Times best-selling author and touring the world while Raging Asshole laments ever having conceived of leaving me for someone else, however. The petty part of me decided that I’d dedicate the book to him.

The dedication would be something snappy like “‘Love’ is just another four-letter word, baby.” I’d let him read it and then slide on a pair of $500 Gucci sunglasses and jet off to the Maldives or something.

Maybe I will work on the draft tomorrow.

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