Last night, we hosted our first and last apartment BBQ. People came by the droves with bags of meat, chips, exotic vegetables, and booze. I manned kitchen duties, and oversaw an incredible grilling job by Jeremy and Nick. At one moment, the grease from the burgers built up on the grill and formed a fire that almost caught a nearby tree on fire. Swearing ensued. I ripped off my ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron and matching kilt and threw myself on the fire. Stop, drop and roll…disaster averted. At that point, I realized that this was the best BBQ I had ever attended.
Maybe that was overdramatic, but the fire was a bit out of hand.
The BBQ was just a last minute thing to celebrate nothing and everything, but I began to realize that this marked the end of the days at Apartment 235. We were all splitting ways and moving out. Gone are the days of questioned sexuality, freak dancing to “Brick House”, calling Brad the apartment slut, fruit fights, and Latina Magazines. The walls of that apartment are naked, the rooms empty, and the air silent. It still smells strange in there, regardless of how many scented candles we burned to mask a garbage can about three days past capacity. It was a metaphorical launch pad to the rest of our lives. Relationships were forged and tested within those walls. Apartment 235 was the beginning…
I hate that frickin’ apartment. We still owe two months of rent on it, and we all moved out.