So I'm all moved in to Ian's apartment. It feels pretty weird. It's like all my random crap like bongos and a sewing machine and kites and libertarian propaganda among his uber modern minimalist decor that I never would have picked for myself. But then I see J. Alfred Prufrock, my gold ceramic duck in the bedroom and the peanut butter we got together at the grocery store because I like chunky, and I guess I really live here now.
I cried like a little bitty fucking baby last night for at least an hour leaving the co-op with all my stuff and when we got home. God I still feel like crying for another hour about it. I loved that place. I don't care if it was a shithole, it was my shithole and I loved everyone in it and everything about it. When you live there, you don't realize how much your stuff smells like stale cigarette ashes and pot. Such a beautiful experience to know so many true authentic people, people who care about me and looked out for me. Of course I'll visit, but I'll miss out on stuff I know it. Like when we had a huge snowball fight with newspaper in the dining room, and all the late night dance parties in the kitchen making french fries, or just all the times I came home for lunch and laughed until my sides hurt. Submission parties, Molly cuddle fests, sitting around on the back porch shootin' the shit. Ahhh, it's so heartbreaking not being there!
Looks like it's time to cry some more.
Friday, January 29, 2010
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