On Sunday, I received eight text messages in a row from the reclusive Josh, the meth-head dick who was my pseudo roommate for three weeks. Crux of the messages was that he was coming to get his stuff. His stuff that was clogging up my garage and still smelled like chemicals and boy sweat. His stuff that made me pissed off every time I went into the garage.
An hour after the eight text messages (to which my curt reply was "Fine") he arrived with a friend and a truck and in two loads, all of the stuff (i.e. crap) was gone. All of it. Josh tried to give me some story about some event or some excuse about his behavior but I simply held up my hand and said "honestly, I don't care. What happened, happened, just finish loading the truck, please." So he did.
While I will continue to lock my house up with a vigilance I never had before, I do feel it's the end of that chapter. Actually, I hope it's the end of that entire book.
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