So I’ve been out accidentally perusing bedrooms lately.
Not in a dirty way, I just happened to have seen a lot of bedrooms lately is all.
You know, tours of friends’ new houses, tours of new friends’ houses, the odd inappropriate or misdirected text message here or there…
And I have to say that these bedrooms are creating a little stir of insecurity inside that I’m not quite sure how to process.
Shut up, I’m getting there.
Because these bedrooms are all super grown up. Like they’re grey or cream coloured and they have matching furniture and chandeliers that look like solar systems and stuff. Like, they have a simple piece of sophisticated art work over the bed or a bed side rug that isn’t covered in dog hair or matching linens and shit.
I look around my room and realize that I actually really am a 14 year old girl trapped in the mind of one of those creepy perverted flashers that were so popular in the 70’s, trapped in the body of a 42 year old mom who’s breast-fed an army.
And I ask myself. Should I purge? Paint? Cultivate a sophisticated palette? Grow the fuck up?
But then I just lay on the floor and pout and mutter under my breath. You grow the fuck up yourself and leave me alone! You’re not the boss of me and I don’t want to be your friend and you can’t play with any of my toys.
Okay fine, make that a 4 year old girl trapped in the mind of one of those creepy perverted flashers that were so popular in the 70’s, trapped in the body of a 42 year old mom who’s breast-fed an army.