Twenty Fucking Four
Feb. 4th, 2008 08:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
exhilarationAll right, well, not that I'm terribly happy about turning twenty four and still having a shithole of a life, I have to admit, I'm doing a bit better than I was for my twenty-third birthday.
To make a very, very long and sob-inducing story short, Krissy and I don't see each other any more. I can't say we "broke up" because we were never officially "together," but... yeah. We don't see each other anymore. For one thing, the distance was starting to be a problem. Her driving over an hour to see me was one thing, but her driving over an hour to come pick me up was something else entirely - I don't live anywhere near any kind of public transportation that can get me to Philly. I mean, there are busses and trains in and out of Atlantic City, of course, but, what, am I going to fucking walk to AC? So no. And her coming over here is just... was just, I should say... but, this is a dry town. There are no bars. And the other towns around here, they're tourist towns, really, and when it isn't tourist season, they're just little hick towns and it's just not the same as Philly and she certainly wasn't impressed. And of course my house isn't terribly impressive or even comfortable, either.
I met Krissy's family. I think that was the last straw. We don't belong together, her and I. That was made perfectly clear.
I don't belong in anyone's life.
I still work in the restaurant a couple days a week, cause I get a ride from my downstairs tenants, which is cool. And I have a part-time job at a coffee shop a few blocks from here, near the bayside. That's an okay job. The first floor of my house is rent-able now, which is cool I guess, and I'm renting it to these two Haitian kids who are always speaking French and stuff, I can't understand them half the time even when they're speaking English. I met them at the restaurant. They're cooks. Um, so, I finished the first floor up, mostly, decently enough, anyway, in October, and they moved in right away, which leaves the second floor for me, and I've been slacking on making the second floor rent-able too.
And the second house is totally stalled because of zoning bullshit that I have no clue how to get around. I need, like, some type of knowledge I seem to be lacking, or something.
So, yeah, I live on the second floor of my own house, go me. I have fallen down my own stairs about once every other week. It's great fun.
I, ah, lost my driver's license, also - I don't really want to talk about that. It was my own fault and it was stupid, and I almost went to jail or something. I'm a fucking idiot, to tell the truth. So, anyway, my downstairs tenants drive my car. And drive me to work, conveniently.
I'm so fucking poisonous. I don't know why everyone doesn't hate me. Oh, for all I know, they all probably do. The ones who count, anyway...
Daniel...
To make a very, very long and sob-inducing story short, Krissy and I don't see each other any more. I can't say we "broke up" because we were never officially "together," but... yeah. We don't see each other anymore. For one thing, the distance was starting to be a problem. Her driving over an hour to see me was one thing, but her driving over an hour to come pick me up was something else entirely - I don't live anywhere near any kind of public transportation that can get me to Philly. I mean, there are busses and trains in and out of Atlantic City, of course, but, what, am I going to fucking walk to AC? So no. And her coming over here is just... was just, I should say... but, this is a dry town. There are no bars. And the other towns around here, they're tourist towns, really, and when it isn't tourist season, they're just little hick towns and it's just not the same as Philly and she certainly wasn't impressed. And of course my house isn't terribly impressive or even comfortable, either.
I met Krissy's family. I think that was the last straw. We don't belong together, her and I. That was made perfectly clear.
I don't belong in anyone's life.
I still work in the restaurant a couple days a week, cause I get a ride from my downstairs tenants, which is cool. And I have a part-time job at a coffee shop a few blocks from here, near the bayside. That's an okay job. The first floor of my house is rent-able now, which is cool I guess, and I'm renting it to these two Haitian kids who are always speaking French and stuff, I can't understand them half the time even when they're speaking English. I met them at the restaurant. They're cooks. Um, so, I finished the first floor up, mostly, decently enough, anyway, in October, and they moved in right away, which leaves the second floor for me, and I've been slacking on making the second floor rent-able too.
And the second house is totally stalled because of zoning bullshit that I have no clue how to get around. I need, like, some type of knowledge I seem to be lacking, or something.
So, yeah, I live on the second floor of my own house, go me. I have fallen down my own stairs about once every other week. It's great fun.
I, ah, lost my driver's license, also - I don't really want to talk about that. It was my own fault and it was stupid, and I almost went to jail or something. I'm a fucking idiot, to tell the truth. So, anyway, my downstairs tenants drive my car. And drive me to work, conveniently.
I'm so fucking poisonous. I don't know why everyone doesn't hate me. Oh, for all I know, they all probably do. The ones who count, anyway...
Daniel...
