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Home arrow Blogs arrow Alexis Stewart
She looked delighted to see me as I lifted garbage bag after garbage bag out of the trunk of my uncle?s van. She descended on the bags like a locust and ripped them open. I tried not to give a shit, but it was to no avail.

I had just spent Thanksgiving moving the last of my possessions out of my mom?s place. Her tiny two-bedroom apartment was being slowly encompassed by her collection of cats, so she and her felines decided to move to a nice chunk of family property in the country. Luckily this was during my brief Zen anarchist phase. I decided to bag up all my possessions that didn?t serve some sort of sentimental value and let Our Lady of Seventies Thrift Stores deal with it. I thought I could get rid of my old life quietly and slip into oblivion without anyone from my high school class noticing.

There?s a magical moment once a year in West Virginia, a holiday where the world is at peace and children dance and unicorns swoop out of the sky with free candy. This happiest of days celebrates the return of our poet laureate Hank III.

Hank III loves West Virginia, and while it?s definitely a source of pride, it?s also a bit confusing. After all, we did kill his grandpa (who, rumor has it, was pretty fond of the state himself). Not only that, but he also lovingly regards our wackiest internationally known family the Boone Country Whites. Doesn?t ring a bell? What about the Dancing Outlaw? Ah, now I?ve got your attention.

SKA House was gearing up for its St. Patty’s Day kegger. Okay, technically it wasn’t a kegger, since (A) we didn’t have enough people we’d actually want to spend an evening with to constitute buying a single keg, let alone several (B) none of us really liked beer. Instead, to make the evening more magical, Sluggy and I decided to make absinthe.

It had been a mediocre week and a pretty bad weekend. The pinnacle was the destruction of Tracey’s car, but lots of little things added up, too: the scene drama, the impending term papers, the lack of time to write or hang out or watch bad movies because of piling up school work. Therefore, it was a very pleasant surprise when the Panty gals reminded me of the Leftover Crack roadtrip we’d planned months earlier.

SKA House was all geared up to go to the local mall and see Super Colon* until we discovered that Tracey’s passenger side window had been smashed out the night before. More accurately, Sluggy discovered the window; the first thing I saw was the half-full sandwich bag of pot.

This made the second time someone stupid had broken into one of Tracey’s cars. When she still had the old convertible, someone sliced through the drop-top to steal half a 24-pack of bottle water. We theorize that it was a dehydrated and desperate band of wandering ravers stuck in a K hole. This crime made even less sense, however, since not only had the perpetrator stolen only a fist-full of laundry quarters, but he also left a sizable amount of pot in the front seat.
May 18, 2007

It had been almost four months since Bailey had been in my zipcode. I’d pretty much come to grips with the fact that the relationship was over. The entire time he was gone, I’d gotten two drunken phone calls, and the only thing I could make out of the garbled slurred speech is that he was dreading coming back to Huntington. Thus in February when I suddenly received a knock at the door, I fully expected my friend Lenny the Loud to be there with a guitar ready to hack out some Who covers. The absolute last thing I expected was a cleaned-up sober Bailey.
April 20, 2007

Tracey, being the fine, upstanding citizen she is, arrived at SKA House in the afternoon after a half-day of work. Sluggy and I, being the dirtbags we are, were still in bathrobe watching Homestar Runner with dirty pint glasses and empty booze bottles strewn about from the previous Shitty Movie Night. Nothing of high importance, like finishing my screenplay, had been accomplished; it’s fairly obviously that something low on the list of priorities, like three days’ worth of dishes, had even crossed my mind.
April 04, 2007

With a month’s notice, Calico moved back to Gallipolis. Much to her chagrin, it caused no drama, and I had a new roommate before she’d even started packing. I had the apartment to myself for about a week, and at first it was pretty awesome to be able to lounge in the living room in my underwear eating spaghetti and watching obscure violent Japanese movies.
March 23, 2007

(<< continued from March 09, 2007)

Bailey was a drunk punk that followed me home from a show one night and never left. I didn’t feel inclined to kick him out because (A) he gave me a harbor from Calico’s drama and (B) he was really good in bed. He was an awesome lover and a funny guy.

However, he was also an unmedicated schizophrenic and a severe alcoholic. He was fond of saying that a forty was cheaper than Prozac and didn’t support some multi-million dollar medical company. I tried telling him that the fine folks at Milwaukee’s Best weren’t worried about their electric bill, but he’s have none of it. I also tried telling him that the alcohol made his attacks worse rather than helped them, but he definitely won’t believe that bullshit.
March 9, 2007

With a few randomly placed alphabet fridge magnets, Sigma Kappa Alpha, or SKA House, was born.

Of course, the concept of SKA House was formed much earlier. Tracy came home one Friday to find a sink full of last week’s dishes, a floor full of empty booze bottles, and the remaining two members of the house in bathrobes with no real explanation. Horrified, she screamed, “You guys live like a bunch of stinking frat boys!” Instead of being offended, we had found a goal.
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