So, I'm doing what any hard-partying dude would do on a Friday night in a beach town. I'm hanging out with my cat (Dori Lu), watching women's tennis (Dinara Safina vs. Svetlana Kuznetsova), and surfing the web (Macbook Pro).
Suddenly, there's a knock at my door. I get up grudgingly and discover that it's a Dude, vintage t-shirt, ripped jeans, backward Baseball cap and all.
He tooks one look at me and is shocked. "I'm obviously at the wrong apartment."
Well, obviously.
I close my door and I hear him go knocking at the other doors. Finally, a neighbor opens up. I overhear their conversation.
"Hey does Brendan live here? Because I thought he lived in that apartment, but some Indian guy opened the door, so I knew he didn't live there."
Hey, I'd be surprised too if I found an Indian in Hermosa. They're, you know, out there, in the suburbs, driving their BMWs, making their money as investment bankers, or doctors, or lawyers, or engineers.
But in Hermosa? Never!
1 comment:
How much is fiction and how much
really happened? If you did fictionalize any part of it, then you
got wrote to larger pieces, either as
short stories or novellas in the same
vein! At least write every day and you
might have a novel before you know it.
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