albatross

Since waking up this morning at 5am for work, I've been on my feet running around the cafe and carrying furniture around the city. Some lovely vintage sectional couches were waiting in an alley way behind the bank: I catered to their beckoning call and with the help of my dear friend Evan, we lugged them into my 3rd story attic apartment (but not before carrying them through various allies around the neighborhood, taking two trips downtown and removing the front door.) I've spent the last 3 hours scrubbing and disinfecting, sanding and clipping, and $30 overall on cleaning supplies and labor. Not bad for a couple of sweet ass vintage couches, but I still can't figure out why the previous owners felt it necessary to wrap each leg in a half inch layers of ragged orange and brown duct tape. It's a good thing I didn't nab that couch at the Salvation Army for $300. Dumpster diving is a full time job. Always keep an eye open, people throw away good furniture because they don't want to put up with cleaning it. This will be "our" couch.

I think most people are that way about a lot of things. It's not that I was ever against repairing things broken, but I'm more the kind of person to wait around until I find something worth really working on. I just recently left my boyfriend of a year and a half for my childhood love. It's funny the way you seem to re-meet people as you grow older and move away for college. After ten years I'm still just as crazy about the guy as I did the day he asked me to sit on the bus with him. We'd listen to Nirvana and Green Day together with a crappy foam headset. Now he flies up to Chicago so we can drink champagne on the front porch and sleep on the floor after long days of lovemaking and movie watching. His name is Chris. He's one of eight people's birthdays I've ever remembered. We have the same tattoo. We're going to dance down the isles. He makes me crazy.