Surrendering the Throne.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is that. I am no longer the manager, or even a resident of the Hawthorne Apartment Building. For ten years that building has been in our circle of friends, Josh and Ryan started it, and this weekend, I ended it. Cleaning out a decade's worth of scum, filth and memories, drunken girls falling over papa-san chairs, Rachael cradling my head in her lap in a 4th-floor hallway as we defied our friends' expectations, Grehlfights, Public Disservice Announcements, Monkey, Turtle-Princess, countless friends (myself included) sleeping on couches and mattresses in the middle of the floor, desperation, depression, smoke of all sorts and ice cream by the ton, a half-dozen illicit live-in girls from Sara to Carrie to Amelia sharing the place with a half-dozen managers, skinny-dipping and yelling at people for skinny-dipping, facemusic, fidelity and its ugly, but ever-present opposite, hedgehogs and lizards, sex toys under pillows, impromptu engagements, tearful goodbyes and the weight of growing up in Columbia. It's all gone now, but for a little junk, some paintings, a cooler and echoes that leave me unsettled and anxious. There are a lot of memories there, but none more prevalent than the girl I loved. Her socks under the bed, her hair-ties hidden in every orifice of every couch and carpet, her stickers on the bathroom mirror, her absence...everywhere. Maybe now, homeless, unemployed, adrift and truly liminal, I can let go and move on to the next love of my life. But that's the future. Now, the past: here's to Josh, Michael, Justin, Mike, Carter, and Skip (included for the sake of historical accuracy only), the motley crew who crewed the damned-ship Hawthorne. Goodbye.