A loft would be nice.
A loft is where all the artist types get stuff done. A loft is where parties happen. Where beautiful people come to be.
And in my head, a loft is where I could be. I could be so hip. It would feel so permanent and solid. A place for everything.
My furniture could be heavy. My dishes could be vintage. People could come over for tea or coffee. They wouldn’t even have to tell me how cool I was. They would use my funky mug and stare at it, raising it up slightly to get a better look. I’d pretend not to notice them seeing, thinking, how cool I was.
A loft would make me productive. Whenever I’d stare at the walls, bored and distracted, I’d realize that there was no reason to go out. No reason to go online or watch TV. I’d be satisfied.
A loft would make me popular. I’d throw parties and meetings. My visitors would sink into my soft leather chair as they sat, purring as they nested. They’d glance at me in the kitchen, just the other half of the living room, and the food I was cooking them would look better. The drink I serve them would taste better. The temperature would just feel right. And they’d never want to leave.
A loft would give me culture. I could stack books on shelves, not caring if they overflow into piles on the floor. Because that’s what lofts are for. Finally, everyone would realize how artistic I was. What good taste I had. What a great life I had made for myself, even though I never went to high-school.
I’d show them. They’d realize the years they’d wasted, going to their stuck-up universities. Working at their professional-sounding little jobs. They’d look at my huge TV screen, and think about their small penises, their inferiority filling the rest of their day’s thoughts.
They’ll sure be envious. They’ll sure wish they were me.
But they won’t come to my loft. They won’t know how hip I am. They don’t exist.
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