So It Goes

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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.

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