This is why I’m going to have to ask for an extension

So my father’s been with us for a week now. It’s going pretty well. He’s been sleeping in The Bandit’s bottom bunk. My Honey is pretty sure our hound dog, Roscoe, is going to miss him terribly when he goes home.

I am having one distinct problem though.

I’m turning into Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory.

My father keeps sitting in my spot.

I sit at the far right end of the sofa next to the end table and the lamp. I can use the rolled arm of the couch as a nice spot for my laptop. The end table is piled with my stuff – research books, pens, pencils, notebooks, sticky notes, my broken iPad – the flotsam and jetsam of a writer. I can plug in my laptop and the cord isn’t in anyone’s way.

Apparently, he’s decided he likes it there.

I just got the developmental edits for my second Carina Press book and I need my spot back. I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. I can feel it in my nuggets.