The Great Rearranger

My tolerance for third-party feng shui has found it’s edge.  If anyone even lays a finger on my possessions, my “junk,” that finger will be added to a display case.  I’ve been very patient, living here with these desolate organisms, but it is time I stop letting them fuck with me and my stuff.  I know when things are touched.  I can tell if someone used my pen just by the angle it rests.  Certainly, some may have an abbreviation for that sort of behavior, but I’ve got a short word for those who want to take advantage of my quality.  Fuck.  Leave my stuff alone.  Not a single human being has an excuse to muster when it comes to sorting through my things, especially not on a daily basis.  In my space, I write the canon.  I don’t leave my area dilapidated, despite what a certain miscreant seems to dwell upon.  Discarded food products, poop, and mud cannot be found at my workplace.  It does not lower the quality of “her house,” nor should it even effect her that I have my own corner that I actually try to get work done in.  In fact, it’s the one place of the house that might hint at the fact that things do get done around here, instead of looking like a historically-preserved living space where you are afraid to sit on the sofa just in case an armed curator is around.  King Zarkon (of Voltron) would quit his job if he saw the knavery that went on in this house.  I am considering purchasing a cubical workstation that I can close off, and lock up.  If anyone has any suggestions, please, by all means, lay down your comments!



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