Living in a tinder box

Now that there aren't piles of rotting food and crusty tissues scattered throughout the house left by the vagrants and drifters, it’s time to try to explain exactly what the hell I moved into.

This house is so old it was built before Henry Ford started working people to death in his factory. The entirety of the continental U.S. was unformed (read: stolen from the Mexicans/stubborn Indians). Women’s suffrage was viewed by politician’s as “trouble ahead.” Thomas Edison hadn't electrocuted any elephants. It probably had a direct line of sight to the Washington Monument, for Christ’s sake.

When we took the place, we elected to inherit all the stuff left behind. Cool, right? We got a couch, yay! And a stereo and a Keurig machine! But with the good comes the bad. We got a tissue box full of random DVDs, from disk 34 of the “Friends” collection to the shitty “Indiana Jones” movie to “Garden State.” They must have taken all their heroin needles with them. They left all of their dishware because when you’re in your upper-20s, you apparently just pull kitchen supplies out of your ass.

But the best thing we found, by far, was a box full of bras and panties because laundry and packing are for suckers. I didn't check to see if they were clean or dirty. I just immediately h̶i̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶m̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶c̶l̶o̶s̶e̶t̶ threw them away.

Brotis Manor, as I just deemed it, has character, which is a clever way to say it’s a shithole. There isn't a single room in the house where I would say, “No one has been murdered here. This is clean and certainly passes code.” The cosmetic touch-ups applied to the place rival that of Hellen Keller applying her own make-up after six shots and a ride on a Scrambler. The stairs are creakier than Greg Oden’s knees. There is zero carpet (I don’t mind a little fuzz, if you know what I mean. Just kidding. SEX.), so with centuries-old hardwood floors everywhere, I fear I’m going to burn the goddam house down every time I even think about turning on a burner.

The kitchen at Auschwitz had more amenities than this one. The contractor must have been beaten with a cabinet as a child. Seriously, no cabinets. Or maybe he just watched “Indian in the Cupboard” and is a disgusting racist who didn't want a Native American figure and young boy to become friends. What I’m trying to say is Dan Snyder designed my kitchen. There are random patches of paint that do not match the rest of the walls. Accent walls for everyone!

The leak from the tub was fixed, but for a while there, you could take a nap on the couch to the soothing sound of dirty tub water that dripped down through rotted floorboards. So peaceful. The hole in the hallway ceiling, however, is still there. It’s big enough to be a portal to Narnia or, more likely, the crusty former tenants’ toenail collection.

The style for doors at the turn of the century was creepy. They would put this glass pane above the frame, for reasons that I am too lazy to look up. Just know that tall people can definitely look into your room even with the door shut. Yao Ming watches you masturbate.

But I guess I love it. I’ve got great friends as roommates. It’s spacious as hell. I’m within walking distance to just about everything I could want or need. DC life is good, my friends. Until next time.

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