I’ve gotten to know the six women I live with now by sitting around on old couches. Our garage resembles Eric Foreman’s basement from that That 70’s Show minus the pot and the foreigner. It’s a place where we gather, smoke our cigarettes, shoot the shit and share bits and pieces of ourselves. There’s something sacred about the garage that makes it hard to get up leave even when I know I’m tired and want to go to bed.
Katie, “I don’t want to be nit-picked. I wanna be praised!”
Connie, “I used to beat the shit out of girls like you.”
I’m grateful for this house, the women in it and the laughter we share.