Writing: the Gateway Drug

My hands hit the keyboard again and I felt as though they haven’t touched these rows of hard plastic in over twenty years. I write everyday whether the sun is shining or the cold and heavy showers of rain hurl down on top of me, but I feel as though this isn’t enough.

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A Place to Rent


I’ve picked through various links on the web in the attempt to find an affordable place to rent for the summer, and possibly for the rest of next year. There were some really cheap places—with twelve other college kids sharing one room—but there was never the right combination of cheap and sane that existed in a place until I found the veggie co-op—or so I thought.

I was trying to find a place cheaper than the University Housing apartments across the street from my campus, and that had fewer snotty-noised-kids running around screaming because they had their first sip of Jack Daniels. I had a few places narrowed down when one of my current roommates told me about a place not too far from Cal Poly Pomona, the school I go to, that had rooms available for rent. From the pictures she showed me, the place looked great and the price sounded reasonable. She told me that the group of friendly kids who lived in the co-op took turns cooking a vegetarian dinner once a week. I thought it was cool; I would live with fun people and cook for five people or so each week, right?


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