I’m wondering again what the hell has become of my life. Standing in front of my mailbox in the lobby of my apartment building, I stare at the scarred sticker that bears my name: Molly Welton. I’ve lived here for a couple of months now, but can’t for the life of me, remember why I moved here. I hate the city with all of its noises and bustle and crime. In fact, I’m not much of a fan of Cleveland itself. I hate being cold and that word, along with all of its synonyms, is the essence of our weather forecasts.
My home is an old stone-front building on East 105th Street that the city renovated into apartments a few years ago. In her youth, she was probably stunning with her sand-colored stone walls, high arched windows, and the iron lattice-work that adorns the front walk. The developers had hoped, I suppose, that yuppies and all of their money would move in, but when that didn’t happen, they lowered the rent and let in just about anyone who was willing to live here. And though recently painted, the lobby still emits a mixture of must and that antiseptic stench of a hospital. It’s depressing to live here, but I cling to that desperate feeling, hoping that it will make me a better writer.
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