19.07.2014, Thursday, 12:38 pm

The situation in Taylor Town got worse as the night progressed, if you can believe it.

I was getting ready to snuggle into my warm comforter and exploit its extreme fuzziness when Mom walked in, her face all funny. So I went, ‘Good night Mom,’ thinking that she’s probably come to tuck me in [even thought the last time she did that, I couldn’t draw a cursive A to save my life].

Instead of fluffing the blankets and singing me a lullaby, though, Mom stared me in the eye and says, ‘Sweetie, I’m afraid you’re going to have to spend the night on the couch.’

Of course, it takes a few moments to digest this.

‘What?? WHY??’ I whined, brandishing my arms is despair. The couch is the only piece of furniture we let Fudge sit on. The couch is where Marty sleeps when he comes over [Yes, the Marty who picks his nose when he thinks no one is watching]. The couch is where we eat when something’s wrong with the dining table.

And now Mom expected me to SLEEP there??

‘Why can’t she sleep in Kathryn’s room?? It’s bigger than mine!!’ I continued, adding more place for her to spread her evil in in my mind.

‘Taylor, Brandy specially requested to sleep in your room,’ –of course she did- ‘and you are NOT going to disappoint her. The poor girl is still missing her mother and just asked to stay here for the night.  You’re acting as if I asked you to switch to an Only-Broccoli diet.’ Mom argued, wagging her finger.

‘Fine, fine, I’ll do it,’ I grumbled, snatching my diary and a green sparkly pen from my bedside table as I dragged myself to the couch.

Now I’m sitting here, on the dreaded sofa, and I’m not liking it one bit. Sure, it’s managed to retain its velvety-ness even after all it’s been through [which is quite impressive, I must say] and it isn’t PARTICULARLY uncomfortable…

But it’s not MY room. MY room with all my glitzy awards staring down at me while I read. MY room with the cool Hunger Games posters cloaking the walls. MY room with its futuristic window that displays a sick view of the Hudson.

It’s not fair!! Why don’t we have a guest room like all other normal people?? I get that real estate can be pricey in the heart of New York. But my parents are DOCTORS. Don’t tell me we can’t afford another fifteen square feet of space.

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2 thoughts on “19.07.2014, Thursday, 12:38 pm

    • Not THAT cool, actually. They have to peer down at people’s infected intestines and advise them on their irregular bowel movement on an alarmingly frequent basis.

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