Appalachia Year

I don't write much about my roommate, B, in the interest of maintaining domestic harmony. I have found out the hard way that the photos I post and the comments I make can alienate people, and that's not what I'm trying to accomplish here. Plus, I wouldn't want someone telling the Internet about how I leave a Family Circle-esque trail of Evie marking my path in the house until I finally pick up after myself. The lower level of our house is usually scattered with bookbag, jacket, coffee mug, other coffee mug, keys, bobby pins, camera, shoes, other shoes. But B and I are buddies, and strangely sympatico given we share a bathroom thanks to the uniting power of Craigslist.

Above is our sophisticated mail-sorting system. B's stuff goes in the orange crate, mine goes in the metal basket. He's been living here for several years, long enough for junk mail to find him. My mail is almost exclusively personal and therefore relatively sparse, letters from friends and cards from relatives and my quarterly ReadyMade (thanks Ana!). I usually do the sorting, and it always kills me that B, a Marxist who studies political theory and used to live in an anarchist collective, gets a subscription to Golf Digest and myriad golfing catalogs. I can't help but tease him about it.