Living with a writer

One of the most interesting and infuriating facets of my current living situation is my boyfriend JB's behavior while he's writing. More and more, I find myself studying him like he's a foreign species who will soon have his own Discovery channel documentary. We live in a small studio apartment, and if I am ever home while he's working on his first novel, heaven help me.

Envision, if you will, the following scenario: I come home after a long, intense day at the office to find JB at his laptop - scrolling incessantly with his optical mouse, as he looks for passages that need editing. "Pspsppspspssssspspspsps," I hear as I try to watch television, surf the internet on my laptop, or just sit and relax. He's testing out dialogue, and he gets so darn irritable if I poke fun or, horror of horrors, try to engage him in conversation. I try to ease my way into his world slyly with, "JB, if you're talking to yourself, can't you talk to me, too?" "YOU GET FRIDAYS AND SATURDAYS! Let me work!"

Ordinarily, I would escape to another room and sulk, but lacking one of those, I turn back to my laptop and begin a blog post. If you can't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em. One of these days/weeks/years, JB and I are going to have similar schedules, where when we're both home, we can and want to spend time together like a normal couple. This will inevitably coincide with a time in our lives when we have multiple rooms. It just figures.