28 July 2015
They were not something I thought I would one day look back on with the fondness one associates with childhood puppies and shit like that. I am talking about the punk rock apartments I lived in for the first decade of my independence.
First one was close to home. Rent was a little over $150 a month. For that kind of money you could rent yourself a first rate Hellhole in the '70s. Never had to leave my floor when I needed drugs in that fucking place. The couple who watched over the place kept two dobermans to improve their chances of living through the nights. Couple pairs of fangs were all you needed for security in the days before guns became common as toothbrushes.
Only lived two months in the next place. People on the ground floor beneath my place objected to vomit and piss raining from above them. Go figure. That got me banned from all the apartments in Sliverville. No easy task that.
Next up was the class place across the scumbag filled river in Fort Royal. Lived there better than a year. Only reason I got that place was because it was haunted. Motherfucking poltergeist. I was well suited to haunted house living. I drank a lot and did more drugs than Whitney Houston's kid. I was fucking near ready to begin haunting places myself.
Next was a shithole across the street from the class place. No elevator, no balcony, no view and a toilet that did not flush real well. A fucking prison it was. A fucking prison with two beer fridges you could order pizza from.
I did not have a television in any of those places. It was fucking wonderful. Just me, my records, an endless supply of Carlsberg and all the drugs a guy with a nurse for a girlfriend can get a hold of.
My neighbours did not like me in any of those places. I did not care. That, my friends, is the Millwall way.