Wanderings of wanderers

(ʘ‿ʘ✿) “what you say ‘bout me”

the original post

cursed how, you say???? well, here’s the thing: no-one can fuckin see it. let me explain further

i live in a tiny flat in a big red brick building with huge windows. it has a driveway with two columns on either side - not a thing you usually see in this area. it is opposite a bus stop and several corner shops. it is on a main, busy road. most significantly, it is attached to a church. a well-known church with a big pink sign on the front.

all things that would make it easy to spot, right???? like if i gave that list of distinguishing features to someone along with my address then they’d be able to find my flat easily, right??? well APPARENTLY NOT

we have never once had a delivery to our flat (outside of the usual postal service) where we haven’t been called by a lost courier 

usually, they are about thirty seconds away. “i’m by the church and i don’t know where to go from here,” they say. so we tell them, “it’s the building right next to the church!! the one you’re outside. that church. it’s the next building along. it’s opposite a bus stop and it has a driveway with two big columns.” 

without fail, they call back 5-10 minutes later, still lost.

i have answered calls from both lost delivery people and friends where i’ve been able to see them standing in front of the driveway, from my window

a friend of mine once drove past my building three times, while on the phone to me, getting increasingly panicked that she couldn’t figure out where she was going. she parked in a nearby road and i had to walk to her car and guide her to the driveway

however, my flatmate and i found this place when we were flat-hunting first time, no trouble, and we don’t know what that means other than i guess this place chose us and the rent is so cheap because the estate agents were so relieved to find the first people in a thousand years who could actually see this fuckin building

today a food delivery person called me to say he was outside the church, was told to go to the next building along, (a 20 second journey on foot) and arrived at my door 20 minutes later, saying, “sorry, i went to the back of this building by mistake. weird right???”

this building doesn’t have a back

Kronotsky Nature Reserve, like most nature reserves, is pretty remote and relies on gas generators for electricity, and keeps jet fuel around in case a rescue copter is needed.  

Thing is, these gas drums are just out in the open. And then the bears found them, and discovered that huffing the fumes got them high to the point of passing out. So now there are all these bears addicted to huffing jet fuel, and they’re teaching it to each other.

One one hand, nobody wants bears addicted to huffing highly flammable, toxic crap. It’s not healthy or safe for the bears to just pass out. 

Halfway through the show, she asked me if I liked it, and I replied, “I can’t wait to see what happens next! I’m on the edge of my seat!”

How deep does the hole go?

My drunk ass had actually walked home without them, pounded on my apartment door, gotten let in by my rightfully-disgruntled roommate, and proceeded to pass out on the couch.  Apparently I puked in the toilet before passing out.  I do not remember this part.

The next morning, I schlepped back to the frat house.  I stood there, right in front of the front door.  This was a novel experience for me.  I’d never been at a frat house in broad daylight before.

A boy, presumably, of the house, asked me what I was doing. 

“I lost my keys in here last night,” I called back.  “I was seeing if I could go in and look for them?”

He opened the door and gestured for me to come in.

“Go wherever you want.”

I’d never seen a frat house post-party before.  Wandering up the stairs and through the halls, I was surrounded by hungover and still-drunk frat boys stumbling around in their socks and sandals and gym shorts, seeking out food and showers like moths to a porch light.  A few of them threw puzzled glances my way.  I’m sure they thought I was some post-bacchanalia hallucination.

I entered one room where a boy was drunkenly watching some Old Yeller-esque movie on a tiny TV in the corner of his room from his bed.

“Do you like dog movies?” he asked, voice all mumbly from grogginess and also from the fact that his face was squished against his pillow and half-buried by his blanket.

I told him I did.

He mumbled again, pleased, and asked what I was doing.  I told him I was looking for my keys.

“Sorry, I haven’t seen any keys around here.”

I didn’t doubt him.

Twenty minutes had passed.  I’d searched just about every bedroom and nuclear-waste-dump-site of a bathroom in that house.  I’d given up on ever finding my keys and was prepared to beg my roommates’ forgiveness and get a new set copied.

As I stood there in the hallway, silently bewailing my predicament, a particularly-burly frat boy approached me.

“You need help with something?”

“I lost my keys here last night and I can’t find them, I’ve looked everywhere.”

“What do they look like?  I’ll put it into the group chat.”  He was already pulling out his phone.

No one ever checks a group chat, I thought, but what the hell.  It was worth a shot.  “Um, it’s just a ring of keys.  The keychain is a pink plastic cat, though, like yea big.  Like bright pink, you can’t miss it.”

He nodded, presumably typing this description faithfully into the group chat.

“Alright, I sent the message out.  Good luck.”

And with that, he turned and left.

A few moments later, I heard a distant thundering.  It was coming from upstairs, and it was getting louder and louder.  One assumes that how I felt in that moment was how Simba felt seeing the wildebeest stampede through the ravine as a horde of large young men all thundered down the stairs, making a beeling for me.

“Someone tell the girl!” One of them shouted, faceless in the mob.  “Girl!  Hey, GIRL!!!  We found your keys, girl!!!”

They circled around me.  I hadn’t felt that small since I was maybe eleven years old.  One of them split himself off from the crowd.

“Are these -” he pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket, “your keys?”

And lo, there was the distinctive bright millennial pink cat keychain dangling off the ring.

“Yes,” I whispered.  “Oh my god, yes.”

“EYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!”

The cheer went up.

Street Artist Transforms Ordinary Public Places Into Funny Installations 

‘buy our flour it’s going to make the nicest bread and the sweetest dress!’