Recently, this bitter cold weather has gotten me reminiscing about savannah. Which makes me think about experiencing some of the absolute best times of my life coupled with some of the worst in a very short period of time. (overall, I would say more good than bad) Most of these experiences occurred at a house referred to as 903. I'm pretty sure everyone has lived/hung out/killed lots of brain cells at a house with a name. It's kind of like a young adult rite of passage. So anyways, 1 year ago I was living in the bottom half of a semi-restored victorian house bearing the address 903 Montgomery street. It had all the classic "house with a name" features: a revolving cast of roomates, unhealthy amounts of cigarette smoke, even unhealthier amounts of alcohol, bills that were never paid on time, so much mess and dirt and filth that any efforts to clean were completely in vain, fires in the backyard, vomit, etc. When your drunk, as most of us were a decent amount of the time, it was all fun. Like the time Will and I went to get wood from a nearby construction site to burn in the backyard, and when we walked back to the house we saw 3 cop cars so we just hid across the street and let people who probably didn't even live there deal with it. Or the time someone (probably Matthew) puked on our upstairs neighbors front door. Or the time I sublet my room for a month to a guy who turned out to be a meth addict. I came home after a long christmas break to find him still living there, after having bullshitted for over a month as to why he couldn't come up with 300 dollars he owed me for rent. While I was moving all his belongings to the front porch, my friends and I found bags of burnt steel wool, empty bic pen tubes, lighters, and then realized all the lightbulbs were taken out of the lights in my room. After all this, apparently, he still thought he could let himself into my house and tell me more bullshit and think I would let him stay there "a little bit longer, while his new apartment was getting fixed up" Fuck you dude!! your the biggest piece of shit ever! Even after getting the keys back from him he continued to show up at our house at like 6 am, and knock on the door and try and get someone to let him in. Sometimes someone would drunkenly let him in, not knowing, and we'd wake up to find the piece of shit curled up on the couch, twitching and soaked in his meth withdrawl sweat. One time we didn't let him in and he slept in my roomates car! The worst part was that he still worked at the restaurant I worked at, and would make tips every night and say he was gonna give me money, but somehow he would sneak out without me seeing him. One day he ended up in the house again, he was done with his usual 3 hour shower and was about to leave, so I finally cornered him and demanded money. After pacing around some more, and staring inside the freezer for a good 5 minutes, he walked up to me and pulled a sweaty, crumpled 10 dollar bill out of his sock, dropped it in my hand, then bolted. Oh yea, he also crashed my bike (he said the handlebars "just fell off") and stole my roomates bike. Eventually I think someone wanted to kill him, cause he stole money from the restaurant and just left town. So that was 1 year ago. Now I live in an apartment with 1 great roomate, with nice furniture and no beer cans on the floor, and I don't work in a restaurant any more, and our house is (mostly) clean, and we have "taco tuesday" with our friends and no one gets sloppy drunk and pukes. I don't mean to paint 903 in a negative light, because I'll always have much love for everyone that was a part (minus crystal meth jeff). Sometimes I think I wanna move into the cheapest apartment I can find and work a job that doesn't require me to wake up before noon and drink all the cheap beer I can find, but then I remember it all gets kind of old pretty quick.
