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.