Attic Girl has left the building. The upstairs former Bird apartment is now vacant again. No more crying, no more drama, no more fights, no more broken windows and no more drama. Good riddance.
Of course I'm always a little saddened when tenants leave the joint. Somewhere deep down I take it personally even though I know it's not my fault and people just live their lives and decide to live somewhere else than a subdivided house that's nearly a century old. Plus the upstairs apartment gets godawful hot. Not even walking around naked up there is enough to find succor from the relentless blank stare of the sun.
Now the north side of the house has a garbage can or two along with other trash from her apartment. I hope someone comes along and carts it away because it is an eyesore. Only the felons and addicts who go to the meth clinic next door will see it but I live here, I'm not just "passing through".
"Why?" I can hear you cry like a Greek chorus. "Don't you hate us enough by enticing us to read your vapid vanity site that's full of emo self-loathing and a decided lack of humor?"
Because I think I might've found my voice. Towards the end of the 7/25/07 dream I started getting a bit purple, pun intended, by using clichés and ascribing emotions to inanimate objects. The proper term for the latter currently eludes me but if I can peek at Jaybird's copy of An Unfinished Education I can secretly edit this entry and make myself appear more erudite than I really am in real waking life.
You know that I can hear you breathing.
