Spare Room Dweller

I'm a spare room dweller.

I open boxes of storage - things I haven't needed in half a decade, or more, and drape the contents over the furniture you got from your ex-sister-in-law's great aunt.  I leave it all out, because I still don't need it; I won't put it back in the boxes, but I can't get rid of it either.

I'm a spare room dweller.

I spend a whole day on your sofa watching BBC interpretations of Trollop's novels, filmed in the 70s.  I leave partially dried loads of towels in the dryer, and you wonder how I came to have so many dirty towels to begin with.

I complain about the weather, politics, the job market, and the dryer that can't seem to get a load of towels dry.  Your dryer, that you worked so long to buy.  I don't like it.  I complain.  Also, we're out of gas, again, and by 'we' I mean 'you' because it's your car.

And thank you for letting me borrow it ...

is what I should say, but never do.

I'm a spare room dweller.

I ate the bagel that you planned to take for lunch.  It was okay.

And your jokes about when will I be moving out?  Your jokes ...?

Well ... let's be honest Mom and Dad, you knew what I was when you let me back in.

I'm a spare room dweller.