I am currently sitting in my living room staring at beer cases that run from the bay window in my living room to the opposing wall in my dining room and are stacked five feet high. No lie.
Before you all suggest that maybe I should lay off the suds, I would like to point out two things: 1) they are not mine, and 2) none of them contain beer. What they do contain are all of the bartender's personal belongings. Let me just go on record here as saying the boy has got A LOT of shit.
The bartender has been threatening to move in with me on and off since last September, but our recent Vegas trip with his old roommate Fuckwit finally pushed him into action. He stealth moved this morning leaving Fuckwit to wonder who ordered all that pay-per-view porn last month.
I came home from work today to find that my apartment was missing. Not really missing actually, more like transformed. You know in the movie Labyrinth when Sarah eats the peach and forgets everything? She goes into her "room" and all her stuff is there, but something doesn't feel right. She opens her bedroom door and instead of the hallway she finds a vast wasteland of junk stretching as far as the eye can see. That's pretty much the feeling I had walking into my apartment when I came home from work today.
What does it say about me that my bartender now lives in my apartment? One thing is for sure - I expect to have lots to write about. Let the drama begin!