Sometimes it feels as if there is nothing sadder than an empty room, especially the kind of room that’s empty for having been vacated (not the kind of room that’s empty but waiting to be filled with “the future’s limitless possibilities,” or some optimistic sentimental horseshit like that).
When I left my last apartment, I had a moment of lingering and looking at the empty walls, but then I caught sight of the disgusting carpet and tacky linoleum and quickly returned to my senses. It was still somewhat sad to go, though; living downtown certainly had its benefits: chiefly the fact that I never had to weigh the respective costs of a taxi to and from downtown versus the inevitable parking ticket I’d receive if I drunkenly left my car overnight in a metered space. (Note to readers: in Zembla, the parking ticket is only 75% of the cost of the two taxis! What a world!). Other benefits included living on the same block as a tattoo parlour, a piercing parlour, an art house movie theater, and our coolest neighborhood bar. You know, for all those times you want to watch a depressing independent film, wash your sorrows away with beer, and finish it off with some permanent alteration of your appearance. Ah, yes, those kinds of nights.
Yesterday I lingered a bit, looking around at the empty walls of my impossibly cool friend Z’s apartment as he was preparing to vacate it in favor of a continent where he’ll get to have Summer all over again–not to mention academic success, fame and fortune, and probably a nicer apartment. We will all miss the hell out of him, but we rest easy knowing that we’ll have a couch to sleep on somewhere in Australia. (Wait, it’s an eighteen-hour flight, you say? Why I can’t imagine anything pleasanter! Yes, that really is a word!)
Incidentally, Z has said he plans on replacing us with new, Australian versions of ourselves. What will they be like, one has to wonder. Tanner, perhaps, and certainly with strange-sounding vowels. Will they convince him to take up an interest in cricket or Australian rules football? More importantly, what the hell is Australian rules football? Answer: A) a phrase in desperate need of a hyphen, B) cute boys in shorts, or C) the key to understanding many of Tony T’s posts. Any rate, I’m sure the Strayan-versions can set him straight.
Heads up, Australia! This one’s a keeper.
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