Smoke gets in your Clothes

The people upstairs smoke. They smoke every day, some days they invite other people over to smoke, drink, pound on the floor over my head and drag furniture and other heavy things around, over my head too. I don’t like the people living over my head, they stink in other words.

Even now when I have been away a few days I can still smell the smoke on my clothes. It’s gross. If you smoke cut it out.

I think the insurance money is here but I’m not sure. Graham, like our Father before him, expects information to be absorbed through osmosis or telepathically or something else mysterious and less than scientific. I’m hoping it is here. That’s really all I know for sure.

No silly looking stick figure grrl with this post, you’re spared today cause my scanner is back at the smokey Beaches apartment.

So aggravating to be sleeping on an old and lumpy couch here when I know I have that perfect wonder bed at home, just waiting for me to crawl up into it. I’m leaving on Wednesday now. Graham offered to drive me down then as he is going into Toronto for something.

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