Long Time Coming
So I’m somewhere in Tennessee, mountain dew in one hand, smoke in the other, coffee waiting patiently for me in the cup holder. Drinking and driving and trucking my way to Seattle when I get a call from the apartment manager of my soon-to-be home. We’re going over the perfunctory details and finalizing my plans for arrival. “You’re going to love it here,” he says, quite matter of fact, “I got a guy from Miami to do all the painting!” I’m thinking, man…there’s a reason I’m leaving Florida, you know? And I’ll be damned if this place didn’t come straight out of the hellmouth that is Miami, indeed. The walls of the first floor are yellow. The second, turquoise. The sixth, puke pumpkin orange. It’s tragic, truly. There is nothing comforting about rolling into your apartment at 3 in the morning, nursing what is inevitably going to turn into a wicked hangover, and being visually assaulted by an orange foyer. Trust me on this one.
Anyway, I’m in the aforementioned hall of death today and I encounter a group of good looking and seemingly caffeinated strangers. Turns out the tall lad just moved in and as part of his rent agreement he is repainting the walls of the complex.
This brings a big, bright ray of ooey, gooey, girl scout goodness into my day.
