condom in minium

A. and I are on the cusp of another move. Of course it became the infamous hard lesson to learn: don't live with your friends. I've always dismissed this rule for some reason. I think both sides need to possess a sort of flippancy towards one another in order to truly live without strain. If I look back, each attempt at living with a friend has failed in its own way. What is funny in retrospect - annoyance over seeing a pile of picked hair glistening from the light of Bellingham Bay, from the kitchen. The sound of bratwursts sparking grease too loudly late at night, is never so funny in the moment. And the moment determines the future. So we've spent a great deal of time trying to get over things while knowing the best way to get over it is to leave. We've surrounded ourselves and are consumed by stubborn. 

The condo has come to its end. A thing that looks nice on the outside, but which embodies tacky, can never live fruitfully, I assume, and am glad for. 

We reminisce over the turret in Bellingham. Though I make sure to say it was Mine, I am aware that it was Ours...though it was Mine. We had a thing which we could paint, decorate, tear up, shower in a horse trough, view the bay. We had collapsable tables and one set of dish ware. We had sexually boring neighbors. I cut my pinky open in a poor attempt at de-pitting an avocado. I sent A. away to Africa and Spain and came back to that place to sleep alone for a long time. I had a pink wall full of images of Marilyn. I slept in a circle and only watched shows about women and friendships. The realtor was Ohana which was Hawaii enough for me. We lived across from a pink deconstructed home where my tall red-haired friend lived, and now that tall red-haired beauty is about to get married. 

Sun's decline from the turret window

I miss walking to bars, drinking a lot, and walking home sad and soft.