{SCHMALTZ DAY: my first apartment}

this morning finds me listening to emo pop punk from the nineties and early thousands and painting with nail polish. i've said it before, i'll say it again, and probably once more later: music is a time machine.

i'm back in my very first apartment; a tiny, two bedroom shoebox of an apartment on 9th and lansdowne. i live there with four other girls and we're all debt collectors. we drive to and from work together and talk about all of the death-threats we've received over the course of the day. i've made six friends at work, so that's good.

i live off of kraft dinner and sidekicks and i spend copious amounts of time on my air mattress in my shared bedroom writing stuff and listening to thrice, motion city soundtrack, and bright eyes. we don't have the internet. we don't have cable. we don't have much furniture. we don't close the windows at night, and i use them to come and go, as i don't have a key.

i have a friend whose boyfriend is friends with a girl whose friend owns a venue that brings in decent bands, and we spend most of our nights seeing shows there and then wandering around all over across bridges and through parks and down darkened streets. we don't cause trouble; we just like exploring.

i get home at 4:30 am sometimes, and leave for work at 5 am all of the times, but i'm never tired because i take a power nap when i get home from work at 2, while my roommates watch movies i don't care about.

i'm actually quite inconsiderate and loud and obnoxious, but i think i'm fine, and i think everybody else is inconsiderate and loud and obnoxious.

the future freaks me out.