Moving in was a *****.
Three tiny flights of stairs.
Night three and we finally had dinner.
Macaroni and cheese on the floor.
I was sad for the first few months.
Crying on the futon.
Crying in my bed.
Crying on the floor.
Crying in the shower.
Crying on your shoulder.
Netflix, Redbox, and Cooltv.
Dragging bags of clothes to the laundry room.
You and Cody played guitar.
We had a live show every night.
You wrote beautiful music.
And stopped singing if I cried.
Turning conversations into poetry.
You introduced me to Becca.
Little did I know, she'd be my best friend.
Getting drunk.
Getting high.
Smoking out of bongs.
Smoking joints.
Smoking bowls.
Smoking blunts.
Trying to find something to smoke.
The light in the bathroom stopped working.
We had to smack it for it to turn on.
That stopped working too.
The candle caught on fire.
Your drunk friend threw it into the sink.
I almost killed him.
We slept together sometimes.
We slept apart.
We slept with other people.
I took out my dreads to make myself feel better.
Shang was in West Virginia the whole time.
But he was in the living room every day.
We rolled...so many times.
Laughing at everything.
Going on toilet paper missions.
The futon broke.
New rule: no *** on the futon.
Playing Circle of Death, we got to know each other.
The ring of beer stains around the coffee table.
Bats chirping right outside my window.
We discovered our super powers.
I don't remember my birthday party.
The Christmas party.
Justin got me drunk on white Russians.
Slow dancing with Brian.
Mouth ****.
Jello shots.
You never carved the turkey cookie.
New Year's Eve someone kicked in the door.
It was broken for months.
The next few months were the last ones.
I didn't want to leave.
The apartment was our home.
We ****** up, we grew up, we threw up.
There's no place home.