Victimless Crime

The interior design of my condo is a victimless crime against taste. Victimless because I never get visitors. My glass coffee table is covered with a dozen brown and beige artifacts obtained in Marshall's Home Goods and dumpsters. I have a wooden elephant, bowls holding smooth stones and a slab of unfinished wood knifing the air.
I have antlers atop my TV. My own abstract paintings resembling ferret vomit adorn the walls. There's a stuffed bear wearing a Postal uniform, a lizard hand puppet and a furry monkey toy. African sculptures, onyx objects, small iron statues of musicians, and liquor bottles line my bar. Classics like Madame Bovary and picture books fill my shelves. My Cd collection ranges from Connie Francis to Rush.
My ragged recliner is covered in paint. Dusting makes no sense. It just floats up there, waits until you leave, and descends back to its home. My ceiling fan is my best friend. My couch is from the 1970s and covered in plastic. I have one chair for my computer and one at my kitchen table.
Only the cable guy might be considered a victim, but his visits are short. I give him credit for keeping a straight face.