I have a feeling my mother won't like me for the next few months. She's house-sitting for the Keenan's, who live in the same neighborhood I grew up in. This new house, though, is like my old house 2.0. It's ridiculous: Hank's room is a penthouse on the third floor with a deck that seems built for drinking and smoking, the basement is finished and has a pool table and three beds (plus a couch), and the giant kitchen has an attached sun-room. Oh, and there's parking outside, which is sweet.
Last night, four people slept over. There were four on Wednesday night, too.
It's tough: I'm given keys to a place that has "fun" and "drinking" written all over it and I'm supposed to be a responsible adult. What Bullshit. With a capital 'b.'
Matt Skiba was last night. I didn't want to go, so Aaron and I sold our tickets. I think I mentioned yesterday how Alkaline Trio has become something to reminisce over, as opposed to get excited about. Plus, it sold out so my pity-support wasn't necessary.
So I managed to kill almost seven hours here. It's almost eight o'clock and there's an older couple making out on the back couches. Cool. I'm playing the Clash and trying to abstain from having another cup of coffee because I've lost count at this point. After work I'm having a drink with Lucy and Mai and Danny and anyone else we run into. Should be sweet.
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