What a fucking long day.<\/p>\n
My hands are rough sand paper, and it will likely take a week or so before I get back the seven, or how ever fucking many, layers of dermis to which I have been accustomed.<\/p>\n
I’ve been cleaning for days. Not so much because I’m particularly tidy, just a tad germphobic. I ain’t wearing no Hughesian Kleenex box shoes. But, I’m also not embracing the layers of someone else’s dust, cluttered with their long, black hair strands.<\/p>\n
I tell myself the owner of the strands was an otherwise clean Asian woman with flowing, straight hair.<\/p>\n
More importantly we’re here. The TV is hooked up to cable in the living room. The bed has been made. We’re all nestled in for the night. Maybe I can convince M. to fetch a glass of wine.<\/p>\n
The ‘hood is spooky quiet. Western, spooky quiet. Like the only sound is the lonely blast of a distant train whistle. OK, it’s a commuter rail, but still and all, it’s an old one<\/a> where in the wild untamed 1800s desperados and whatnot were going back and forth between San Fran and San Jose.<\/p>\n If only to have nice young men do the heavy lifting and to get your metal framed bed taken apart and put back together again, pro movers are the diggity bomb.<\/p>\n I ain’t moving from this couch or this block or this town for eons. Too fucking much work to move in any definition of the term.<\/p>\n