chronicles of carroll gardens
so it may seem that the gods smiled upon me when they saw fit to allow a space to open for me in the brooklyn neighbourhood of carroll gardens — a place for families and aging hipsters, latino grocers and french immigrants. yes, it is a wonderful and safe place. there is only one problem.
i live with a very good friend of mine who — while on the lazy side, the kind of person that was definitely born with a silver spoon in his mouth (his mother a published writer, his apartment … well … here) — is motivated and charismatic. yet, his existence baffles me when compared to the main figure who raised him. that would be his mother.
i fucking hate her selfish, keeping up appearances, elitist, bourgeois, wannabe-upper-east-side-even-though-you-only-live-in-brooklyn, you-haven’t-read-hugo-until-you’ve-read-him-in-français, i-went-to-an-ivy-league-so-i’m-better-than-those-who-didn’t, classist, racist, failed writing ass.
my roommate is perfect in comparison. and she’s letting me live in her apartment with her son while she stays in long island with her husband.
so that’s coo.
but fuck her. forreal.
"when bad things happen, i know you want to believe they’re a joke. but sometimes life is scary and dark. that is why we must find the light."
bmo, adventure time