From MySpace to My Space

I should never have let Raoul move in. He has nothing to do before his clogging class starts, and he just won't leave me alone.

I’ve told him several hundred times that I need to concentrate when I write. I need to sit alone for long periods of time, staring at the computer and thinking. Intelligent thoughts rarely pop into my head, and they need peace and quiet in order to grow. It doesn’t help when he comes in looking for that book he’s been reading, or suddenly decides to vacuum, or needs a carpeted space to practice his routine for "America's Got Talent."

We've argued about this several hundred times but never resolved it, and I know it's only going to cause trouble if I bring it up again. He doesn’t get it. He says he tries to give me my space, but since I work in the den there’s nothing he can do. It’s not his fault he needs a stamp. Or his tennis racket. And sometimes, you know, you just have to try on your snowshoes.

Which destroys my train of thought, and ruins my writing. In fact, if I’d been hired to write the Ten Commandments, there’d be exactly three of them now. Because just after I’d thought up the one about murder he'd have come in asking if I thought Mango was a good name for a puppy. While I was pondering adultery he’d knock and ask if I recognized a tune he was humming. And when I thought about honoring moms and dads he’d poke his head in and ask if I knew how to get popcorn stains out of underwear.

In fact --

What's that, honey? Really? A cloud that looks like a turnip? My, that’s interesting.

Now, what was I talking about?