It wasn't easy. Two months or more were absorbed by the constant stress of moving out of that place. Finally, after hours, days, weeks, and months of packing and cleaning, we left the little house on Bell Ranch Street. It's kind of a weird house for the memory books. In the short two years that I occupied it there were four additional roommates, one dog, a wedding, one break up, a roof reconstruction project, Andrew and I's first Christmas with the folks, some fights to forget and some laughs to remember. Tiffany always joked about the poor little house because it's putrid yellow walls were comparable to The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. If you haven't read it yet, it's about woman who essentially loses her sanity and the disturbing wallpaper is the final blow that completely collapses her mental abilities. No, I can't say I'm sad leaving the house. It too, in a way, harbored a mental depression in these last two years that, I am glad to say, can finally be shed.

 I came to Florida for a future; Andrew came her to get away from the past. The house, in a way, is a time stamp for both of us and the further away we can get from it, the closer we are to starting fresh. Void of any "baggage" and completely together without the creeping memories or references from loved ones of past loves, that is how we will begin this adventure. Then again, I would say the adventure has already begun. As I cruised down Interstate 75 toward Apollo Beach with liquor bottles clanking in the trunk, garbage of different variations sprawled across the vehicle, boxes and bags stuffed to the gills with the left-over miscellaneous belongings and the radio blasting Journey's "Don't Stop Believing...", it was hard not to notice the sunshine, giant raindrops, and a illuminated rainbow leading the way. Yes. We are on our way.