That's what my apartment complex was called. It was a small 30-unit complex that presently has about 19 tenants left. Sounds like a classy joint, eh? Don't be fooled.
Two nights ago, three cars got broken into in the parking lot.
The transvestite upstairs was pissed and told me she was going to invent a device that would cut off a person's hands when they touch her car stereo. I said, "Dude, you should totally get that pattened." She said, "I'm not a dude" and walked off.
I'll admit, I'm going to miss this place.
Last night I finished cleaning it out so I could get my rent deposit back. Two years of dust, grime, mold, and memories were cleared out in under 5 hours.
I shed a couple of tears. It may have not been the swankiest place in Austin, but man oh man, it did have some spirit.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, the midget.
But #103 at The Broadway had alot more going for it. It was the first place that was mine. Ever. I graduated college and moved across the street into this apartment.
Trouble letting go of the past? Yes, you are allowed to read that into the above statement.
Two years have passed since I put my name on that lease. I tell you what. A person changes alot between the age of 22 and 24. I know it's only 2 years, but it's the first two years of your adult life. There's not an academic institution there to distract you with. There's no Mom and Dad moneybags available (not that they were in the first place). You are on your own.
Completely on your own.
And I was. But #103 at The Broadway shelterd me through that first scary year. It provided me with plumbing, heat, a dishwasher and a bed. I wasn't alone.
When I broke up with the gay guy, it was in my apartment's vanity area.
The first time I donned dominatrix leather and spiked boots was in that apartment's bedroom. LadeeLeroy was born there.
I sat on the stoop of that aprtment and smoked cigarettes while I talked on the phone with LA Guy. He asked me to be his girlfriend while I was standing in the 'rock garden.' I paced through the entire span of the efficiency about 180 times waiting to hear his knock at the door. 9 months later, he was breaking up with me on the phone while I sat in a corner of my living room.
The first time I puked on myself was in that apartment. Luckily, I puked directly on myself and avoided getting any on the carpet. Rather than take off my clothes to remove said puke, I just stepped fully clothed in the shower and rinsed off. Then I passed out on the linoleum floor.
I started this journal sitting at the computer desk in #103's bedroom. I would smoke pot, write e-mails, and, yes, even go into the Diaryland Chatroom (don't shun me!) hours on end sitting in that cramped corner.
I made Ace of Ass the best pasta dinner in the kitchen of #103. I told him to fuck off while sitting in that same cramped corner mentioned.
I watched the WTC fall while sitting in my apartment's living room. Princess came over later and we both sat, shocked, staring and wondering aloud what our future world would be like as a result.
I spent hours talking to Wakey, Princess, Muffin Face, Ranger, and Newmany in that apartment. Many bottles of wine were consumed. Many break-throughs were made. Many bowls were turned to ash. Many good times were had.
And many more are to come.
Only this time, it won't just be my place. It'll be our place. It's a little hard saying good-bye to something that was once all mine. It's also a little scary.
However, I know that it wasn't the apartment that made me grow over the last two years. It was just a couple of walls, some shoddy construction, and crappy wood. Yet it encased a spirit that I hope will travel with me to the new place.
New place. New beginnings. New.
Fuck. This is going to be fun.