urbanista

My apartment overlooks a forgotten lot encased between two lonely brownstones. It's the desolate remains of a garden that must have been pretty at one point or another, but over time became subject to neglect and decay. The overgrown weeds tickle the dusty, gray porcelain of dried up water fountains and one can barely distinguish the flat paneled stones that putter their way through the ambling brush. The garden gnomes must be growing restless.

Last night I fed on sugary concoctions at Chase's place on 6th, a smallish apartment with impossibly lofty ceilings plucked from the pages of an Ikea catalog. Oh, how I adore those crafty Swedes and their impossible-to-pronounce names. We choked down one sticky confection after another, washing the blissful ooze down with enough milk to make even the most lactose-tolerant individual queasy.

I remembered mid-sugar-induced-high that I used to post these long, rambling rants about all that had gone wrong in my life and on a good day, mused over the small delights that had made it all worthwhile. I brought this up with Chase, who laughed the coarse, sexy, carcinogenic laugh of a seasoned smoker, and upon regaining her breath, gently chided me for this foolish reminiscence and reminded me that I did not know how to spell.

And then I remembered that I had never achieved a comprehensive understanding of the semicolon and all the proper ways to apply a hyphenate and immediately grew very discouraged.

But: then I thought--oh, what--the hell:?