Years ago when we first moved to our apartment the most obvious part about it was the big blue carpet. Even now, years later, and several requests for removal denied, it remains, as blue as ever.
It all started with a string. Just a piece. But there it was. I couldn't recall using string for anything, ever.
Read MoreLet me preface everything by saying that I lost my mind during a sequence of several major snowstorms, which are still arriving, quite comically, one after the next.
And so the story begins with me — an urban street parking New Englander. The big storm hits and news teams are giddy. Grocery stores are overrun. Milk sales are up. There are, miraculously, still people rushing to buy snow shovels.
Strange things happen at art exhibits. Shoulder to shoulder with regular old strangers. It's here that I remember about bumping, about the paranoia of being bumped. Those of us entering are led to the first painting in the first room. The mood could be described as antsy. I can see the painting ahead. I've been bumped. Or I bumped. It's hard to say.
Read MoreOne moment all is right in the world. I'm driving down the highway like any other day, finished with work, focused on the road ahead like a thousand times before. Responsibilities and troubles are on hold as I listen to the tunes on the radio.
And then, there it is. A disturbance. A noise. A noisy disturbance. Birthed from a whole slew of events and car part transactions with the road that I never knew a thing about.
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