Her apartment is cramped

Her apartment is cramped.

I’d leave it at that if I could, but I’m writing a blog, and there is an expectation that I say things. If this were a poem I’d leave it at that really:

Her apartment
is
cramped.

I’d give it a pithy smart-ass title, something excessively longer than the content like “Waiting for My Girlfriend of Five Years to Dump Me after a seven hour drive” M. lived on the second floor of a two story building at 215 Lovelace drive. I like that name, Lovelace, very provocative. I hear Lovelace I think super-spy with red hair, a tight blue shirt hugging a pair of DD breasts the envy of every mainstream comic book artist and pornstar. No matter what she wears, shorts, jeans, a skirt, she’s got a garter belt just above the see line, hence her code name.

What I don’t think is three cats, an ice cream maker, a long distance boyfriend, and a wooden staircase that is begging to be THAT staircase in Psycho, where every step carries the risk of a knife, the inevitable fall burned in celluloid, THAT staircase in Abigail, vibrating with King Diamond’s thrashing falsetto, dualing guitars fight for the scraps of your soul, THAT staircase on the 6 o clock news that sent little Timmy tumbling down into the afterlife when he broke his neck on the third step from the top. He just forgot to tie his shoe!