I wish I could tell you why in the name of Moses' saggy balls they call my apartment complex The Skigs. You could ask locals, or rather you could try to ask locals, but I doubt you'll ever get the real story though. Not like it matters, the name doesn't have any significance. I had parked my old Honda outside a convinient distnace from the building. I never have trouble parking in this area, it's on of the perks of living far off from the busier side of the city.
Dragging Greg upstairs was a pain. I had anticipated that. Luckily there's an elevator one flight up(the location only seems inconvinient when you're carrying something or in this case someone) so we didn't need to drag him all too far. On our way up in that tiny tin death box I could have sworn the circuts almost cut out or something. If I could die I'd have been very upset by this. I suppose that's why no one really takes the elevator.
However, I'm now jiggling my key in it's lock and opening my door, so it all worked out just fine. Personally I think the past half hour went smoothly. You know, except for all the parts that didn't. I swear to god if Paige really is being stalked by that creepy trench coat man from before like I think then that'd be the icing on the cake.
"It isn't anything fancy." I begin as I switch on the light. "But it isn't roach infested either." This is true. My apartment has four rooms. A giant room for the kitchen, dining room, and living room, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. I've decorated it and made it look prettier than someone who rarely has company needs to. Still, feeling not I'm not living in a dump does contribute quite a bit to my overall mood. I've lived here for longer than I usually can stand to stay in one place, it's starting to feel like a home.
"Put Greg on the couch, I'll go get a bucket."
