my choice

You know how when you spend so much time with someone, you pick up their mannerisms and vice versa? I always yell, "My body, my choice!" whenever Eugenio tells me to do or stop doing something, like biting my nails or picking scabs.

Yesterday I told Eugenio I was planning on buying filing cabinets to replace the eye-sore of a desk in our room. He swears he needs that desk, but all he uses it for is shoving important documents in drawers and keeping unimportant documents strewn on top. He doesn't use it for reading, writing, studying, or anything one would need an actual desk for. He uses our kitchen table for those tasks. A filing cabinet is more in line with what we need. But Eugenio has a serious, inexplicable attachment to this big, ugly desk taking up half of our bedroom, so when I made this statement about replacing it, his face grew red, his voice exasperated as he shouted, "My desk, my choice!" hitting the table with his fist.