Fuck Dumb Shit, Straight-Up (Or, Chuck's Chill Pad)

This is Chuck.  He and I go way back.  In fact, he's my oldest friend to date - and very-much my guardian angel. 


Chuck has been with me through an insulin-induced coma (age 4), invasive surgery (age 8), a serious concussion (age 16), a car accident (age 24), severe pneumonia (age 26) and two drug overdoses (age 27).  Somehow, none of these things killed me.  If I'm not mistaken, the Laws of Cat say I have two remaining lives.

Chuck, however, would beg to differ.  He's in it with me for the long-haul.  And he's a pretty awesome fella. 

His hang-out - underneath the loft-bed here in 2A (or not to, eh?) at Lamp Factory, effectively referred-to as "Chuck's Chill Pad" - is a comfy spot.  Futon bed, bookshelves, nice view of the pallette storage facility across N. 5th.  Good gig, really. 

Anyway, he's good company.  Cleans up after himself.  Respectful to guests.  Always smiling. 

And he doesn't pay rent.  Not after everything he's seen me through.  Getting older is a strange predicament...one can't help but look back in amazement, sometimes. 

He keeps me looking forward, though.  Always watchful for trouble 'round the bend. 

Always good to have a 2nd set of eyes.

-dp