The first time I met my roommate Kindra, I gave a huge sigh of relief. I quickly noted her defining characteristics: outdated Aeropostale shirt, thighs that looked like they could have given birth to my own, and two oversized Harry Potter posters, directly over her bed.
I sat and watched the acid creep up on me.
The hands below begin to lift me up as if I’m crowd surfing at a rock concert. The screams in my ears are ringing, drowning out the sound of the greatest guitar solo to be played upon that stage.
The air smells of moist vaginal odor mixed with stale coffee and the scent of week-old corn muffins seeping out from the glass display case. It’s a dry, cold day in late September and you’d have to split the waitress’ face with a sledgehammer in order for her to crack a smile.
I dress nicer than heiresses of Beverley Hills and I have a better car than Julie, who successfully put herself through eight years of med school. Other than having fourteen sexual partners a week, I’d like to think I lead a somewhat normal life.
A single light flickers above a rustic table sitting in the middle of a poorly lit boardroom. 7 identical men are yelling across the room at one another with nametags pinned to their shirts which read Lust, Greed, Sloth, etc. A young man named Zach enters carrying a clipboard and a pen.
The new girl in the apartment complex seemed nice enough. A small redhead aged 27. She was looking for a new job downtown. She had just graduated from some university that I had never heard of, but I congratulated her anyway. She must’ve started college later in life.
The freshly cut grass adjacent to the sidewalk is covered with frost. Burnt orange and crimson red leaves fall from the trees and perform graceful pirouettes in the crisp autumn air. Belinda drops a clear plastic bag filled with secondhand clothing, glass bottles, and generic canned goods at her cold achy feet.
