Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Who gives a fuck about an Oxford Comma?

One of the best summers of my modern life had to be 2006. I lived on the first floor of my crappiest apartment yet, above a mold infested grow-opp and under a raccoon nest on the border of Kensington and Chinatown. There was no public space and if you came over to my house there was nothing much to do but sit smoking out my window facing the brick wall opposite the small lane that lead to the scene of many a crime. There I would listen to my old metal C.D.’s, books and call sheets scattered at my feet, my stained and dusty mattress causing allergies.

I didn’t realize that I would be evicted in just a few short months and my roommates came and went. I didn’t cook once that summer, sometimes I’d re-heat something from New-Ho-King or I’d sneak down the street to meet someone at the Red Room and sit on the sidewalk eating discount soup and shooing beggars away from our pitchers of steam whistle.

So I write this because I found two of my old and transient room mates on facebook recently and we had a laugh about the few months we shared together.


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