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Cold in My Apartment

I got to meet my neighbors today. This old lady and her sister live together. They told me that a few of my boxes were left in their care and that if I wanted them, I would have to “come and get them.” So I went next door probably five minutes later and had to look around their house for it to their consent. They were both wearing matching clothes and drinking lemonade in opposite hands. They had around ten cats, all Persian, running around and scratching me while I had to look for my boxes.

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After about 10 minutes of this, all in complete silence, I find out that the boxes had blankets tossed over them and were being used as regular furniture. I folded the blanket and left it on the couch next to a cat grooming itself. One of the old ladies nodded while the other shook her head. But they both took a sip from the lemonade. It took me close to another ten minutes just to escort the boxes out of the apartment. All the while cats kept streaming in from the outside whenever I opened the doors. No cats ever left.

When I finally got back to my apartment, which shouldn’t have been a journey considering it’s right next door, I had missed a call. I didn’t know that I had a land line connected, yet somehow I had both a phone with service and a missed call. So I called the number back and at first, all I heard was heavy breathing. Then it was someone saying my mother wanted to speak to me, so I said dial her through, and then the voice simply said that she was about to call me right now. Then my cell phone went off.

I answered the phone and heard the muffled complaints of my mother. She was either being smothered while she spoke or she was eating cheese again. She loves Wisconsin with all of her heart; that’s what the cardiologist told me anyway. After I had got done getting chewed out for never calling and also not inviting her to her new home and not telling her that I don’t life where I used to live, I was able to finally hangup on her. But this only happened after I reassured here that it was all very intentional.

Speak to me

Then after all that time I finally got to sit in my large, mostly vacant house all by myself. On the glass table in front of me rests an unopened manila envelope. It’s another contract to make a whistle. All around me are boxes from the move that I have yet to unpack, now with two additional ones covered in fur from animals I don’t own. I sneezed.

So aside from the bizarre meetings, strange phone calls and apparent allergies, I’ve had a good day overall.

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My Time Whistling in Sunny Isles Miami

a whistle, i made thisHello. My name is Alan Macey, and this is my blog. I sell whistles. But not the whistles you would think. I sell whistles to boats. I’ve been working on my craft for years. When I was little, I would widdle holes into sticks and then find a way to turn it into a whistle. It wasn’t till I was a few years older that my mother, Taylor, told me how gross it was, and I stopped, for a time.

I’ve loved whistles all of my life. I set out to be a great whistle salesman where I’m from up in Wisconsin. But there’s not much use for them there. I make custom whistles, usually for coaches or factories. But once you’ve made them, you’ve made them all. My sister sells belts and between the automotive industry and men with increasing waistlines, she’s enjoyed bashing me at family events.

So after having years of being tormented by my mother and my sister, Jean. I decided to move away. I contacted The Realtors at Brosda and Bentley and they had a house arranged for me. Small scale, for them, large scale for those not in the whistle industry. One of my favorites of the properties were The Acqualina Mansions, and trust me, if I had the money to rent a single night there, I would have. It might sound like I’m joking, but I spend a month creating the whistles that end up being the iconic sound for millions of peoples adventures. The time has to be right and yet unique. No two whistles can sound the same.

So I’m new in town down here, and I have no intent on going back to Wisconsin or the snow. I hate the snow, and I love the sand. I also love the heat, the way it feels on my face, the way it stings my hands when I’ve been working with the iron for too long. It’s been something I’ve dreamt of forever.

im a pawnAs for Miami itself, it’s alright. There are plenty of beautiful women here, but the drivers are awful. There are plenty of good places to eat, but very few things that agree with my stomach. I do like that there is plenty of time for sports and activities, but I don’t think I can enjoy the heat for that long. Overall, I’m happy to be here. I may need some time to adjust to the permanent summer of Florida, but I prefer it. Let it become my season, let the sand become part of me, let the world surround me.

Let the ocean splash around me and let my body be taken from it. I want to be absorbed into this; I want who I am to erode in the dunes. I want my northern feet to be changed by the southern sun. I’m tired, and I’m filled with hate for where I came from.

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