Okay first of all: I LOVE FREE HOUSING! Thank you, theaters that give me housing and put a roof over my head while I’m in town!
Now that that disclaimer is out of the way, I’ll say that my current little apartment resembles nothing so much as a halfway house. I’m not sure if it’s the peeling walls or the peeling radiators or the bleak overhead lighting or the sad linoleum squares or the tomblike shower, but the whole place invites you to sink slowly and picturesquely to the floor, light an especially smoky cigarette, take out the picture of the woman who betrayed you and had a baby with your best friend while you were serving your time, take out a lighter and very slowly burn her image to ash, pace the floor in a midnight-to-6-am montage wherein you resolve never to do smack again, call your old dealer, pull on a distressed 90s jean jacket, and reel toward the door. Eventually later you will stare up at the birds sitting on the telephone wires beneath an overcast sky, and you will think of the Price of Freedom, and then eventually you will love again! (Probably the sassy barista at the coffee place on the corner, who is putting herself through night school while she raises her young son, and has resolved never again to trust her heart to another, but here you are, and you are so damaged! But so likable! And you live in the halfway house down the street!)
