Rent here reminds me of the rock-bottom rent deals of the dirty D but it still isn't cheap enough for downward spiraling musicians to ante up for headphones, let alone a propa practice space. The jerk downstairs has been working on the same arab-strap-brokeback-c-clamp-burgundy-romance tune, I mean TunePortion, since I have been here. Last night B had a chat with him but not before I recorded this for posterity.
This is for you B (and my other B in LaLa since I've been telling you about it):
I will miss you mr. downstairs and the space rock sounds of your mental demise. Take it from all the rest of the great crazies: Keep it to yourself until you are ready to bring it or end it.
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