The apartment I live in isn't really an apartment, in that it's more a few converted rooms above a Ghanaian food shop. But it's bright, and airy, and the rooms are big and the dryer works. Our landlady has also told us that we're only allowed take our bins out in the dead of night, which is concerning, but we've decided to label it as kooky and not think about it any further. In much the same manner, the room I live in isn't really a bedroom as much is it is a large closet. But it has a bed, and a couch, and a wardrobe, so I'm not complaining. I'm also not complaining about the tiny rent I'm paying.
There is one thing I am complaining about, and his name is Travis. Travis and I haven't met, but I already know that I despise him. Travis is the guy who used to live in this room before me. I know his name, because of the "Sorry You're Leaving, Travis!" cards he left in his wake. He abandoned these, plus some other miscellaneous crap, in a shoebox in my closet. Here are some reasons why if I ever meet Travis, I am going to murder him and then vomit on his corpse. If you're reading, Travis: I'm completely serious. I am going to murder you.
He Owns A Sexual Position Di
As most people learn fairly early in life, anybody who owns "hilarious" sex game paraphernalia is a categorical douche and deserves to die. This is the first thing that caught my eye in The Shoebox.