Ghetto, low-rent screaming all up and down the block just past 11:30 at night. Someone had gone into her bathroom, I heard (and the neighborhood heard). She was going to “beat down that bitch that took her shit”. I call Rob to the front door and we stand in the shadows listening to her threaten and scream, right by our front door, until she is literally dragged away by her man. Guess what color they all were? It breaks my heart.

She’s scared because of what the doctor said, and wanted someone to go get pedicures with. I wasn’t around because now I’m in New York.

I’ve paid less for cars, GOOD cars, than this monthly rent. The apartment is gorgeous in the 100-years-old-but-in-perfect-condition kind of way. We decide though, that 400 square feet is too small.

Everyone thinks they are better than everyone else. Everyone thinks they are cooler, and everyone has an agenda and an ego, a business card, a pitch (and trust me, I have one, too). It is The Way It Is, and it’s usually awesome, but sometimes I’m SO TIRED OF IT.

The 24 hour fried chicken place is a constant source of temptation. But that’s not so bad.