Final Destination
Thank you all for your tips, suggestions and concern that someone will have to scoop my charred remains into a tattered New Balance box tomorrow morning. I love you, Internet.
BUT.
Now I have a chorus. Every time the smoke alarm squeals, my upstairs neighbor drops what sounds like a box of scrap metal on the floor while shouting a mix of obscenities that make me think English isn’t her first language.
SO.
I’m going to my boyfriend’s house. FIGHT IT OUT, YOU TWO.
