Nothing of the furniture in my apartment was bought by me.
I'm sitting here on my sofa looking around and I realized, none of this is me. None of it is my style. All my furniture was hand-me-downs from my parents when I moved out for the first time; the rest are a few items I got after my grandmother died.
Where am I in all this?
My computer and two picture frames are about the only things in this apartment that I can say I picked out myself.
This is what happens when you're poor. You start to feel like Miss Bates in Jane Austen's Emma. Having no choice but to rely on the scraps of others.
I feel a Jane Austen movie marathon is needed.