i had lived in the same city on the same street in the same house for 21 years. but now, every six months [give or take], we have a new home. changing roommates. roommates not working out. and now we have it narrowed down to two. him and me. me and him. we have it down to an artform. he sits beside me on the couch playing videogames on the playstation2 while i'm playing videogames on the nintendo ds.

in our new home in church hill, we have two stories. our bedroom is on the top floor beside the bathroom beside the computer room. if we wanted to sled down the stairs, we'd crash into the front door. the living room is beside the kitchen. a half bath is in the living room that we have cleverly disguised as home of a robot that sits on the toilet that doesn't work right now. nobody will challenge the robot for a sit on the toilet. his teeth are mean and abnormally white. he crunches thoughtfully on a fetus. he's saying "trust me, i'm a doctor." but his hands are mishapen. he has teeny tiny human legs attached to his huge robot torso.

we share a porch with the neighbors, but because of shared awkwardness, we see them rarely, if at all. it's 8 minutes to work, and i like when coming and going, the gravel flies out from underneath my tires, announcing my presence.

things change so quickly. people come and go. feelings get hurt. hearts broken, hearts fixed. sometimes i feel like we're the only two and we're hovering over all of this madness surrounding us and watching intently, wondering what went wrong. i wonder often why i can't fix things, despite taking them into my own hands. i battle with fate inside of my mind and i want to control everything that i know i cannot.

now is the time for oreos and dr. pepper. huzzah.

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