...and who says so?
In a way it's true, two CAN live cheaper than one, well, one of the two, the other's burden increases exponentially if my past relationships are any criteria; everytime I moved in with someone MY expenses went down, their's up, so two were living cheaper than one, yes, but one was bent like a fuckin' serf and doing most of the work while the other, namely me, was reaping in most of the bennys and making it seem that while you were out busting your ass for a living, I somehow was paying my way because the house was clean and the dishes done when you got home, as though you needed a maid, and in this case, a 'maid' - me - who would (did) eat/drink/smoke/be merry you out of your weekly paycheck...
Good job if you can get it but they don't last. Even the numbest catch on after awhile (at the end of one such rapprochement my companion de jour had gone so far as to mark the levels of bottles with a felt tip, meticulously count loose change, weigh every gram, check the odometer, left notes to 'KEEP OUT!' and generally badgered me into leaving) - and there you are, out in the street again, on the loose, prowling the alleys looking for a home.
Any ole port in a storm is never more true than when you're homeless.
In a way it's true, two CAN live cheaper than one, well, one of the two, the other's burden increases exponentially if my past relationships are any criteria; everytime I moved in with someone MY expenses went down, their's up, so two were living cheaper than one, yes, but one was bent like a fuckin' serf and doing most of the work while the other, namely me, was reaping in most of the bennys and making it seem that while you were out busting your ass for a living, I somehow was paying my way because the house was clean and the dishes done when you got home, as though you needed a maid, and in this case, a 'maid' - me - who would (did) eat/drink/smoke/be merry you out of your weekly paycheck...
Good job if you can get it but they don't last. Even the numbest catch on after awhile (at the end of one such rapprochement my companion de jour had gone so far as to mark the levels of bottles with a felt tip, meticulously count loose change, weigh every gram, check the odometer, left notes to 'KEEP OUT!' and generally badgered me into leaving) - and there you are, out in the street again, on the loose, prowling the alleys looking for a home.
Any ole port in a storm is never more true than when you're homeless.
Beer can-strewn closets in filthy after-hours speakeasys for a bedroom, dirty string mops for pillows with a cardboard mattress and a Rutland Herald blanket...ah me, maybe if I had polished the silverware and Lemon-Pledged the end tables I'd still have a home...
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