Ever So Much More Than Twenty

I looked back at my old Xanga blog for the first time in five years...

9/27/05:
(Our neighbors in San Luis Obispo)
There's the "artist" who gave us a housewarming gift of an old sink on a stand filled with dirty water and flowers with the roots on them, saying "here are some crap flowers. If you don't want it, just throw it back in my yard." On the other side we have a duplex with two college student chainsmokers. One I call "baldy," and the other hits on Lana. They take very good care of their lawn, unlike us. The other half of the duplex is occupied by newlyweds. He's sitting with the front door open in his boxers playing computer games most of the time I walk by. Across the street there's either a lesbian or a gay guy (I'm still trying to figure out which) who comes and goes constantly and has two yellow mini coopers. Directly across from us is an ancient woman, "Margaret," who does gardening all day in a sweatsuit, but her yard never changes.

We later found out the "artist" may or may not have been running a meth lab in a shed in his backyard.

I hated living in that house. It's not like my life was so great back then, but why does it make me so sad to read all these old memories?