MyOwnWorld

This weekend I didn't spend resting or traveling or playing disc golf or signing autographs or doing anything remotely enjoyable that I do on a semi-regular basis. Instead I began the process of moving all of my beautiful and completely necessary stuff out of my downtown loft and into an old house in the same neighborhood where I grew up. You might be wondering why I did this...you might also be wondering why in the world I included autographs in the earlier list of things I normally do on weekends.

The answer to the first can be found earlier on my blog but I'm not sure how to do one of those neat little links things in the paragraph so if you feel up to it it's really not that difficult to locate. But for those of you who are motivatedly-inclined...I'll give you a quick run down. Basically he's really loud and inconsiderate and has an annoying dog that barks all the time and pees on the floor which drips down into my apartment. I mean come on...just because it's the next night and you come home and turn your freaking awful music up to 11, doesn't mean it won't wake me up and cause me to angrily yell at you and bang on the ceiling with my zombie-pocalypse weapon. What a douche. Also downtown Shreveport isn't that cool or convenient and it's far away from everything.

The answer to the second is that I was lying...plain and simple. But I did sign a few t-shirts and even a pair of jeans once back when I was in a band. I asked the girl if her mom would be mad that I had written on her jeans and she assured me that she wouldn't care. She was probably lying too but that's another story.

Anyways this house was built in the early 40's which equals old. It's big and creaky and mildly terrifying. The room I sleep next too has an old-school chain lock on the door, which I keep bolted because there are close to 30 bitter deer head hanging on the wall just waiting to get their bodies back so they can go on a deadly rampage and get revenge on the entire human race. But seriously it's just one of those houses where you keep expecting to see a creepy shape flash past the edges of your vision or have an undead murderer be staring at you when you close the medicine cabinet mirror thing. In this situation it's so easy to start sentences with "wouldn't it be creepy if..." and then go into some hair-raising account of scary things that could happen to you. And when you live by yourself there's just no coming back from one of those...much less a bunch of them.

Since I'm not feeling very creative today I'm going to end with moving sucks and anyone who needs some inspiration for a horror film or book, feel free to come stay with me. I could use the company, just don't start any sentences with "wouldn't it be scary if...