As I listen to Alanis Morissette singing about those events that aren’t really ironic, I am reminded of the 90′s and the Spice Girls, and how Natalie Imbruglia had such enviable hair in Torn. I’ve stuffed my home into three large suitcases, which is comprised of films, books, clothes, and a digital camera which casts an odd red aura over a majority of its pictures. As my boss, Eddie Kim, dragged my bags into my new apartment, he took off his slippers at my door and crammed my suitcase in the corner, telling me that a dresser would be delivered tomorrow, that he was sorry for the delay. He was so particularly sincere about the “inconvenience” though I couldn’t imagine being any less hassled. After he handed me the keys and reminded me to lock the door behind him, I was asked by another boss of mine to have drinks with a few other teachers who were either leaving or just arriving. I met Chris at my door and two Marys downstairs, we went to a bar and I had a Budweiser, even when Corona and Heinekens were available. I spoke to another girl that night, dark, steady eyebrows, freckles in a line and a short skirt which lifted once a drunken stupor was in session. I tried not to notice, though I suppose politeness was irrelevant.