I’ve lived here two weeks now and I can still see the carpet in my room. I’m not quite out of clean clothes. My car has yet to fill up with slurpee cups and empty chip bags.
We’ve known each other for a while now, though we haven’t spent much time together. We know enough to have conversation. You know not to mention the fucking Steelers. Assholes. I try and avoid talking about zombies and the post-apocalypse.
My room will soon be unmanageable. Every other day I’ll tear it apart in a frantic search for my keys. My outfits for the day will simply be picked-up off the floor and given a sniff test. The smell of stale chip crumbs (jalapeno flavor) will soon fill my car.
Sooner than I’d like, you’ll find out: I forget birthdays, conversations revolve around me, my love of beer is borderline dependence, and I am unable of making any real decisions.
But for now you think it’s cute that the first date was a trip to the 711, followed by a couple hours in a dive bar making fun of the regular’s mullets.
And you’re probably right.