I live in an attic, without a bed, without a television. I keep my stuff on the floor. My floor is the ceiling for the two girls that live below me. The two girls that I share a kitchen and bathroom with. I also share the rest of the house with them. They pay me rent because they're not on the lease, but I'm not the landlord. The landlord lives far away. He doesn't know about the girls. He doesn't know about the cat. He doesn't know we painted the kitchen pink. The thing about sharing is, I never went to kindergarten, and so I never learned how to do it properly. I've got napping nailed. I learned to count. I can even eat a graham cracker with the best of them. To the dismay of myself and those around me I turn out to be malevolently and irreversibly selfish. So I stay in the attic and think about ranges and percentages and wonder if I'll ever have the social grace I need to be a nice boy. I sit on the floor, on a pile of dirty laundry, and slump over and gaze at my navel. I bite my nails and scribble notes about wars that were over for decades the day I was born. I do what a lot of 25 year old college dropouts do. I eat poison and spew it back out in vitriolic spasms towards those I love. Just because most of my friends deserve it is probably not a valid excuse. I'm still nice to children and most elderly people. I'm nice to dogs if they don't bite. I'm nice to my mom when she's sick. I'm nice to strangers. Nice to meet you.
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