Last night Craig and I moved to Block Island to share an apartment that looked a bit like my old apartment in Murfreesboro. Leaving Long Island was devastating and I began to cry.
"Are there ocean beaches around here?" I asked.
"Yeah, but you have to drive an hour," Craig replied.
Of course, Block Island is locked in the crux of Long Island Sound, but I suppose dreams don't follow geography.
I was also devastated over my decision to move in with Craig. I wasn't ready for such a big step and he was situating ugly furniture in ways that didn't reflect my intense need for a space I'd like to exist in.
My gut-wrenching decisions stewing in my insides, I drove around the island (which is beautiful and quaint) and came to an intersection with a laundromat situated on the corner. This was no ordinary laundromat. It had no walls, kind of like one of those covered picnic areas you see at parks, and was filled with angry black women shouting at each other. I was somehow able to see the building from a Google Earth point of view and it was shaped exactly like a woman's reproductive system, complete with a vagina and Fallopian tubes and everything.
Back at the apartment, where my coffee table was patterned like a Scottish tartan, a random girl from high school showed up with a gift certificate to the laundromat. I was afraid of the screaming women, but before I could decide to use the certificate or throw it away, Pete knocked on my bedroom door in real life to tell me that Maevis shat on the rug.