The stench of old, sour tobacco permeates the air. The frying pan is in the kitchen sink, dirty, like it's been since yesterday morning. Another dirty glass has been added to the kitchen counter. A wiener dog floats in tepid, murky water in a pot on the stove. In the fridge, there are a few hot dogs whose "use before" date was over a month ago. Gangster rap blares from the stereo in the living room. Motherfucker this, motherfucker that. A vocabulary more limited than a three year old's.
The day I leave this place behind will be celebrated annually for at least a decade.