Ten years (not-quite) gone ...

For weeks I've been planning a real thinker post on what it means to have lived in Duluth for the past 10 years. It was going to include that first glimpse of cresting the hill on I35, and seeing that big ole lake, and the houses set into the hillside and how it all looked a little like a hamlet, a post-apocalyptic hamlet.

Then I would settle into my first memory as a Duluth resident, living in a secure building with no way to know if I had a visitor unless they did a cop knock on the front door. My good friend Hank, who paved the way for my move, came over to welcome me, or rather heckle me, to the 'hood.

I was at about .25 and spooning a bottle of whiskey, a reserve I kept in my freezer for my then long-distance boyfriend. Hank stood in the street yelling my name until I went downstairs and let him in. He laughed as I bumbly fumblied all over my shittastic apartment, dripping snot and beads of booze sweat.

Soon after he left, I barfed up a bunch of grapes on my box spring.

After a recount, I realized I've only lived her nine years. Granted, this is still seven more years than I planned to live here, and about 50 shy of how many more years I plan to live here. I moved here at the end of November, 2000. So this post will have to wait until next year.

I'm so worthless at math.