I’m not really one to make rules for myself. I’m a go-with-the-flow kind of gal. I’ll try almost anything once, and I rarely freak if a risk I take doesn’t end in my favor. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t certain standards by which I live. Let me explain.
I don’t let just anyone or anything into my bedroom. My bed is a cone of trust. You don’t get to enter it, especially with me, unless I know that you won’t betray me. It’s a Becca law that I have always honored.
This being said, something has happened to this law. I have broken it.
I am so cliché right now: barely touching my Japanese takeout, wearing work out pants that I mainly wear when I am not working out, and sitting on the faux wood floor of my soon to be ex apartment. It’s every bit a scene out of a familiar movie. It mimics that one montage scene in which the main character is making some sort of significant transition; picture clips of furniture slowly disappearing from a dwelling as the main character is going through a very obvious and dramatic emotionally reflective period. There is usually some heavy sound track playing in the background for added effect.
Shit. I have my Ipod playing in the back ground right now, and I am sitting on the floor all aloof. Can you surpass cliché? What would that be called?
Although my dumplings are cold, I have to admit that the sound of my favorite Pandora radio station reverberating between my scant living room walls actually feels comforting. It is a good thing I also have 7 layer dip to counteract the cold take-out. I should just go ahead and start making origami piñatas while I am at it. After all, all of my entertaining gadgets are stacked like a failed game of Tetris into a bunch of overpriced boxes at the moment.
There is something incredibly relieving about freeing yourself from material belongings. Read the rest of this entry