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11 October 2006 : poncetta drive
daly city, it's sort of a giant trash bin for san francisco. every day you'd descend stairs from the beautiful city, fresh air and blue sky above you. you'd hop on the train and travel eight miles south, and every day it was grey and rainy and windy.
the apartment had a balcony. if you stood on tiptoe and craned your neck and it wasn't too dark outside, you could see the faintest darkening of sky at the horizon which indicated that the ocean was near.
this was the apartment of little girls. seven roommates in eight months. we didn't eat, we smoked cigarettes in the most pervasive wind imaginable, read books by the light of the 76 station in the parking lot.
elouisa was a street-hard latino dyke from san jose. she and her girlfriend got lube on my favorite pj harvey album and didn't clean it up. or tell me.
jamie was a giggling fashion designer from wisconsin. she yelled at me every day for wearing red together with purple, bought a hamster named "sandwich" and she was my favorite.
chrystal was half sioux, half mexican and her black hair was glorious. she couldn't claim five feet in platforms and her hair was almost as tall as she was. she went through a zen phase and insisted on calling me "little grasshopper."
amy was crazy, and canadian. she brought home stale pastries from her job every night and my body turned on me in its quest for protein, my hair clogging the shower drain and covering the floors, my knees weak at the drafting board.
chantelle wasn't even eighteen when she moved in; she teased her blonde hair sky high and wore two belts every day. all the boys loved her, but she loved the gangly, good natured one that no girl would look at twice. i spent weeks wishing to be just like her.
lindsay was the oldest. she made the world's best macaroni and cheese and smoked more weed than maybe anyone i've ever known. i hated that. she hated that i hated that.
lauren was the beautiful one, who at age eighteen left her 26 year old boyfriend in ohio and said to me one night, "i just don't think i'll ever love anyone again." i couldn't look her in the eye for days.
on good weeks, i spent no more than two nights in that apartment. instead i dragged myself to san francisco for school and then made the trek through the mountains in any weather to sleep at scott's house, even if i had to get up at 5am just to make it to the city in time for class.
he said, "you spend so much time here because it's a home. you don't have that there."
no, all i had were stiff brown carpets and little girls. i cried for hours after i said goodbye to him, but that apartment held nothing. absolutely nothing. driving away was the easiest thing i ever did.
posted by lindsay at 23:09 ::
daly city, it's sort of a giant trash bin for san francisco. every day you'd descend stairs from the beautiful city, fresh air and blue sky above you. you'd hop on the train and travel eight miles south, and every day it was grey and rainy and windy.
the apartment had a balcony. if you stood on tiptoe and craned your neck and it wasn't too dark outside, you could see the faintest darkening of sky at the horizon which indicated that the ocean was near.
this was the apartment of little girls. seven roommates in eight months. we didn't eat, we smoked cigarettes in the most pervasive wind imaginable, read books by the light of the 76 station in the parking lot.
elouisa was a street-hard latino dyke from san jose. she and her girlfriend got lube on my favorite pj harvey album and didn't clean it up. or tell me.
jamie was a giggling fashion designer from wisconsin. she yelled at me every day for wearing red together with purple, bought a hamster named "sandwich" and she was my favorite.
chrystal was half sioux, half mexican and her black hair was glorious. she couldn't claim five feet in platforms and her hair was almost as tall as she was. she went through a zen phase and insisted on calling me "little grasshopper."
amy was crazy, and canadian. she brought home stale pastries from her job every night and my body turned on me in its quest for protein, my hair clogging the shower drain and covering the floors, my knees weak at the drafting board.
chantelle wasn't even eighteen when she moved in; she teased her blonde hair sky high and wore two belts every day. all the boys loved her, but she loved the gangly, good natured one that no girl would look at twice. i spent weeks wishing to be just like her.
lindsay was the oldest. she made the world's best macaroni and cheese and smoked more weed than maybe anyone i've ever known. i hated that. she hated that i hated that.
lauren was the beautiful one, who at age eighteen left her 26 year old boyfriend in ohio and said to me one night, "i just don't think i'll ever love anyone again." i couldn't look her in the eye for days.
on good weeks, i spent no more than two nights in that apartment. instead i dragged myself to san francisco for school and then made the trek through the mountains in any weather to sleep at scott's house, even if i had to get up at 5am just to make it to the city in time for class.
he said, "you spend so much time here because it's a home. you don't have that there."
no, all i had were stiff brown carpets and little girls. i cried for hours after i said goodbye to him, but that apartment held nothing. absolutely nothing. driving away was the easiest thing i ever did.
Labels: The walls too thin
posted by lindsay at 23:09 ::
1 Comments:
And you know exactly what happened to the lube on that P.J. Harvey album. Sick bitch.
By 
, at
10:47 AM