After living with my rather noisy parents who never leave the house (it seems), I realize that in order to write, one must truly, in the words of Virginia Wolfe, have a room of one’s own. Let’s make that a soundproof room of one’s own. I’m trying to write now and they are talking so loud, it’s almost impossible to think deep thoughts. In this noisy society, T.V.’s going, youtube videos blaring from my sister’s room, it’s a wonder anyone finds the space to think. I realize these are rather boring thoughts, and obvious, but I feel like I’ve never really experienced it before to this degree. I want a place of my own. [As I blabbered my complaints, I decided to actually stop and listen to what my parents were saying. My dad was talking about his abs.]
Dad: I told you I have a one pack. Touch it, it’s weird.
*they laugh hysterically*
Dad: That’s too much laughing.
Mom: It’s just like one beer bottle, definitely not a six pack.
Dad: Oh well, it’s just a shell that takes me from point A to point B. As Lady Gaga said, I’m perfect. I was born this way and she thinks I’m perfect.
I wish you knew my parents as well as I know them, because this dialogue would get ten times more hilarious if you did. I guess I don’t want to move out after all. Maybe someday when I am seventy and all alone with my cats, my pen and paper, I will long for these days of noisiness and overhearing absurd parental conversations. Lord of all true laughter, thank you for orienting my heart toward gratefulness. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.