(no subject)
With furniture, you get what you pay for. The little white writing desk in my bedroom is THIRTY-NINE years old. The paint is worn yes, and it has gouges and scrapes here and there, but the wood itself is sturdy. A day of sanding and patching and painting and it'd be restored. But my dad says I can't take it. Which I don't begrudge him, since it was a sweet sixteen birthday gift from my grandmother. I weep for the particle board nightmare which is undoubtedly all I'm going to be able to afford to replace it with. I'm hard on desks. I lay on them, nap on them, dig my elbows into them and periodically, beat on them. Solid wood is a must.
Speaking of the move, I have packed exactly one box (o snap.) Not that it would really take me more than one good day of packing to get all my stuff in order, considering it's just books, my tv, dvd player, my laptop, and what, toiletries and some kitchen stuff (appliances, pots and pans) Living under the same roof as a sixteen year old boy means there is no spare furniture. At least, no spare furniture that does not smell of Axe body spray, stale chips, deeply ingrained boy funk and old socks.
Speaking of the move, I have packed exactly one box (o snap.) Not that it would really take me more than one good day of packing to get all my stuff in order, considering it's just books, my tv, dvd player, my laptop, and what, toiletries and some kitchen stuff (appliances, pots and pans) Living under the same roof as a sixteen year old boy means there is no spare furniture. At least, no spare furniture that does not smell of Axe body spray, stale chips, deeply ingrained boy funk and old socks.