--The hardcover of my book Practically Perfect is going to be remaindered soon, so if you like hardcovers and dislike paperbacks, it’s now or never, peeps. Buy from Amazon here, or Brain, Child here.
--Every once in a while, I’ll drive down Jefferson Park Avenue and see the apartment that Brandon and I used to live in. It was cheap ($200 a month for each of us). All the walls were a dark wood panelling; the downstairs carpet was a red shag, and the upstairs carpet was Rice-a-Roni–inspired. It was the last place where we ever had a roommate.
The last roommate we had there subletted the place over the summer when our fabulous roommate Emily left. He was horrible. (Here I was going to go on and describe the many ways in which he was horrible, but I’m on a less-mean-is-more kick. Let’s just take this one fact to stand in for the sum of his annoyingness: He gave himself the nickname Foucault, but told us his real name was Miguel. It’s wasn’t. It was Michael.)
There were hushed, and then increasingly less hushed, conversations about him. This brought me back:
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