May 03, 2010

So Regan and Sherry are getting married. They stopped by my apartment on their whirlwind tour to incite youthquakes around the province.

I made them coffee in the most awkward way possible. “All my electronic devices decided to commit suicide this week,” I said. “The rice maker went first. Now I have to force-feed the coffeemaker boiled water to get anything out of it.”

“That’s clever,” they said, very much in love. With each other.

It rained then it stopped. We went out to buy rhododendrons for their yard. I got rhubarb for my balcony and mushrooms for our bellies.

Back home, tattooed men just finished ripping down the tattoo studio next door. I was sad. “That’s the main reason I moved here,” I said. “Well, at least I still have my stench of urine in the hallways.”

We cooked mushrooms. Played dominoes. The storm clouds dispersed in the evening air.

That’s when we grabbed our pitchforks and raced to the streets to take over the deserted city, the abandoned stores where tattoo studios used to live. “Youthquake!” we cried. They were happy.

“Now go home and twitter about it,” I said.

They did.