Mom yells at me, "I'm tired of tripping

over your backpack! Move it somewhere else!"

"But I have no other place to put it!" I protest.

She wails, "I don't care! Just find another place!"

I protest, "But it's been there for so long,

and I always put it there! You know that!"

Then she switches gears. "Keep the windows open!

Let air in that way! Why don't you ever

keep them open?" she complains.

But I'm comfortable this way! What does it matter?

I think to myself.

I'm too busy analyzing

my calendar, which is large enough

to cover a wall.

I have shows to catch up on—do I have

enough time tonight to do that? Oh, wait—

I also have to shave ...

I hate it when you complain

about little things like this! I think.

"Because I want it that way!" she retorts.

If you don't leave it alone, then I'll hurt you,

I think.