taliaangeni
It is what it is.
Lifting the last box of his belongings, Anderson Tripp, slammed the trunk shut of his 1969 Ford Mustang. He turned to stare at the only house he could afford. The real estate agent grudgingly told him that things had happened in the house, weird things. Whatever. It also needed a little work done to it, which was all good seeing as he had two weeks of nothing to do.
Sighing, Anderson walked the distance from the car to the house. Inside the house was quiet and to remedy that Anderson dug through his things until he found his stereo. Walking to the kitchen he found an outlet and brought the thing to life. Nirvana: Come As You Are blared through the kitchen. That was better.
Going into the living room, Anderson looked at the few boxes he had taken with him. All he had was a couch, clothes, and music. Sara had the house and most everything else, even his money. Fucking alimony. Hours passed as he put his things away and cleaned as he went, sweat dripped from his forehead and neck. The electricity wasn't on yet and even if it was Anderson wouldn't be using the heating and AC. Who had money for that shit anymore? Not him. Fuck Sara. Fuck the guy down the street who was sleeping with his wife now. Fuck the guy from work who couldn't take a beating like a man after talking about his wife, and then had the nerve to whine to their boss.
(OOC: So I was imaging the house to be in a bad way. Have you seen Speechless? Well, the house was in need of repairs - doors falling off the hinges. Maybe some holes in the wall among other stuff.)
@Antqionette
Sighing, Anderson walked the distance from the car to the house. Inside the house was quiet and to remedy that Anderson dug through his things until he found his stereo. Walking to the kitchen he found an outlet and brought the thing to life. Nirvana: Come As You Are blared through the kitchen. That was better.
Going into the living room, Anderson looked at the few boxes he had taken with him. All he had was a couch, clothes, and music. Sara had the house and most everything else, even his money. Fucking alimony. Hours passed as he put his things away and cleaned as he went, sweat dripped from his forehead and neck. The electricity wasn't on yet and even if it was Anderson wouldn't be using the heating and AC. Who had money for that shit anymore? Not him. Fuck Sara. Fuck the guy down the street who was sleeping with his wife now. Fuck the guy from work who couldn't take a beating like a man after talking about his wife, and then had the nerve to whine to their boss.
(OOC: So I was imaging the house to be in a bad way. Have you seen Speechless? Well, the house was in need of repairs - doors falling off the hinges. Maybe some holes in the wall among other stuff.)
@Antqionette