Sh*t My Co-Worker Says:

 

“You know, if I was ever going to, like, try it,
I would take 1980s horse steroids and just ride, man.
You’d get so many chicks that way.”

 

“It’s like the beginning of an episode of ‘Duck Tales’ in here.”

 

(anyresemblancetoanyonelivingordeadiscoincidentalandtotallynotintentionalblahblah)

My Day So Far:

It is 11:30 in the morning.

Becca has not gone to sleep yet,
on account of the fact that she,
once again,
had an AWESOMERAD idea for Halloween decor
that HAD to be executed in neverasmuchtimeassheneeds.

Additionally,
I have cleaned up two passive-agressive shits from DammitDog,
one “I didn’t want to poop outside, so I’magonna poop in the corner instead” from The Corgi,
one disgusting ALBINOSPIDERFUUUUCKWHYDOYOUEXIST,
fifty gazillion seeds from maple pods in my hair, down my bra, in my shorts,
two hot glue burns (tho’ not even close to the Emissary of Satan Burn),
tuned out the rantings of one creepy neighbor,
and have watched two movies.

I have not started on my costume yet,
and my party is tonight.

Next year?

I start working on Halloween decor in AUGUST.

And bright ideas that come around in the beginning of October?

I’ll write you down and tuck you away for NEXT YEAR.

ps (yes, pictures are forthcoming of the Project that Would Not Sleep)

Dust in My Eyes:

(that teeny bit of green? Forest Lawn Cemetary)

This is the house of constant parties. And next to it? The street Zambonis. That never turn their engines off.

The Ranchero Apartments. Home of tubas, off-key singing, and lecherous old men. I never parked on that side of the street.

The Stupid Triangular Cupboard in which Nothing Ever Fit

All Artwork Copyright of Rebecca S. Rea, 2010
All Rights Reserved

Quiet:

‘s weird to be packing up The Boyo’s apartment.

When he moved here, four years ago
(almost to the day),
I remember trying to cheer him up about this place–
the landlady showed him a different unit initially,
one with more cupboard space,
with a closet in the second bedroom;
instead he got one with considerably less room,
with a den instead of a bedroom,
and cupboards made for people who don’t cook.

And I remember wondering,
in the face of this huge setback,
how long he would manage to stay in Los Angeles
before fleeing back to the green and familiarity of Oregon.

But he stayed.

This place is a testimony to White Flight.

The neighborhood has gotten exponentially worse in these four years–
More graffiti.
More helicopters at night.
More loud neighbors
(Praise-and-Worship-at-7:00am-Girl, I’m glaring at you).

The company that owns the building doesn’t make repairs on time,
if ever–
they belong to the “just give it a coat of paint, and that’ll fix it” camp.

The rent isn’t low enough to justify living here any longer;
that, and getting robbed last October was kinda the nail in the coffin
(especially since the management knew that someone
suspicious had been reported, and refused to notify the tenants).

I am deeply glad that he’ll be leaving here.

I don’t think he’s ever felt at home in this apartment.

But…

I’ll miss this place.

Four years is a long time to make memories.
To make those little rituals that we love so much.

And I kinda feel like we’re leaving them behind,
or just packing them away forever.

…

Even the best moves are bittersweet.

So,
Goodnight, little apartment.

Goodnight, stupid triangular cupboard that nothing ever fit in.

Goodnight, pictures that hung on the walls.

Goodnight, little kitchen we cooked in.

Goodnight, courtyard, chain-smoking ladies, Ranchero-party-people.

Goodnight, sunset beams on the bedroom walls.

Goodnight, so many things loved and hated alike.

Goodnight.
Goodnight.