People in Gulfport drink as a full-contact sport, but there are no empty liquor boxes in the whole of the city.
So I have all my shit in bags and loosely piled at my parents’ house (yay, mom). When I left my former home, my dad was plugging away at my bathroom (yay, dad), the dogs were sleeping on the couch (yay dogs) at Tom’s (yay Tom), and my mom was on her way home with a confiscated computer and the last of my shit.
I am living out of my car. I can’t believe I went to college and I’m living out of a Toyota. At least I have a bed at Tom’s house.
I have an apartment tomorrow. For a month. Gotta find a house. No pressure.
Police at my house.
Trespassing notice for The Convict.
A new bathroom I may never use.
Rehearsals and shows back to back to back.
Drywall to fix, rooms to paint, carpet to install.
Tenant not moved out yet.
Haven’t seen the beach in at least a month. I have vague memories of sand and surf, but not much else.
Drywall repair kits. Paint. Carpet remnants.
Cockroaches and slimy doorknobs.
The visual imagery is stunning, ain’t it?
I NEED to get together with you guys. Help me; I’m losing my mind. Never needed chick time like I do now. Anyone for drinks Sunday night? Dinner? A peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk? A breath mint and a sip from a water fountain?
I swear to christ, ending a marriage was less trouble than renting an apartment, being a landlord, and finding MY home.
Home. I remember home. It was on the east side of Gulfport. I gave it up for a house. Oh, and tenants.