listen to me, I know what I'm talking about

the treehouse sits quietly today, stoic and drafty, a glorious fishbowl fortress who belongs to us as much as we belong to her. there are changes abound within the walls and I'm trying to hold on for dear life while still remembering to scoop the shitbox and empty the dishwasher. val is moving out in four days and we've yet to find a replacement, but I'm characteristically much more concerned with things of lesser consequence. (amy winemouse??) I suppose I just trust the universe to provide us with the perfect craigslister of our dreams, one who is neither seen nor heard, nor smelt. I've got half a mind to turn the extra room into a cat gymnasium for rufus and officially assume the position of lady of the house, but it's always nice to know that you can borrow a tampon from someone in a moment of desperation. (rob never has them anymore. fucking menopause.)

back in the glory days, I was the governess of a home nicknamed the crunk station, and although I can't remember the precise moment that its moniker was chosen, it certainly had more of a ring to it than Filthy Hipster Flop House. the crunk station was perpetually abuzz with chaos, hormones, destruction, booze and a general maintained and fully expected madness. we had a higher turnover rate than a mcdonalds in hunters point, but only one of the sixteen people I lived with during my two year stint there left on bad terms, and one could only expect as such from from germany's answer to a young courtney love. leaving the crunk station was a landmark moment, and an emotional landmine at that. my last moments there were spent sitting with lindsay on the living room floor in a viking hat, sweaty, exhausted and stressed about my immediate impending homelessness. linds had been helping me clean out the entire apartment so I would be able to get my deposit back, which was no small task considering that it was filled to the brim with five years worth of abandoned crap the others had left. we were surrounded by giant black glad bags, all bloated and ominously final, like a gathering of obese grim reapers, and she warbled, "this is all we have! ALL WE HAVE IS SHIT!" before bursting into hysterical tears. luckily, with the closing of the crunk station's door, the shotwell mansion's opened, after a mere two months of surfing couches with true cowabunga passion. (two words for that era: GOD AWFUL.)

anyway, now I'm lost, I don't recall what my point was. it's likely that what I was getting at is that the treehouse is my home, for better and for worse because I love it, and the inhabitants are some of the best people I know. it's far from crunk, but as much as I am loathe to remember... sometimes change is good.

and now... a crunk montage!

this is a note left on the keyboard of the atrocious german's laptop.


this was us in happier times, beer soaked times.


this is a whole 'nother blog entry.


zoe's chin balls


jorge in my room, after getting caught in the rain (nice crazy eye, right?)


steen in the crunk living room, first 3P party


glam party flier!


bay to breakers '06


lindsay on the last crunk day, in the last crunk moments