warning: long story.
So I’ve got a roommate problem. Let’s call him Slippery Pete. I share a 978 sq ft loft with Pete and one other guy (Dave) in Downtown Los Angeles (rent sucks here, you guys). That is there are no walls. What we have are an assortment of bookshelves, sheets on wardrobe racks, oriental screens, street found plywood, an extra large surfboard, and other assorted goodwill pickups. The plan was for this loft to be cheap bachelor’s paradise: home and getaway to three freelance guys and a dog who weren’t making the most money in LA when we signed a lease.
It’s a glorified locker-room. With Pete as that gross, hairy guy pantsing freshmen and thinking his dick tucking mangina jokes never get old.
Over the course of this year Pete has done the following:
