Too tired to remember whatever it was I thought to post about today, as though it matters. It's been another long day. The apartment is finally emptied and done. It's really strange dismantling another person's life. We paid a guy to haul almost everything away, including nearly 30 bags of clothing that had been stuffed, jammed, crammed, packed, pressed, shoved, squeezed, forced, mashed, squished, squashed and rammed into the tiny closets and dresser set.
We asked him to take the clothes to a thrift store but they probably went directly to the dump. We'll never know. We'll never even see him again.
Charlita the Cat likes the new digs. She has a morning and afternoon sunbeam.
No one seems to care that the chair is too close to the fire.
Lunch at the Royale.I think I'd rather die but what the hell? It's not an either/or situation.
4 comments:
What you thought about posting? I thought about it first, I think, and then forgot about it, before you even thought of it. I didn't write about it either. I appreciate that you enlarged upon the theme.
We make a hell of a team.
Indeed. The memory hole times two.
The Royale? I don't know where that is. But my father had an aunt whose husband took all her pension money and disappeared, and she wound up in a fleabag hotel in Oakland, and died from falling asleep with a lit cigarette. 1940s and 50s, good old days, you know.
My grandfather lived in fleabag hotels up and down the coast at the end of his life. Sad.
The Royale's on Clayton.
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