Dear Liza, a hole.
I think I may have discovered what awaits people who end up in the 9th circle of hell. It’s not Lucifer, frozen in his own tears. It’s a fully furnished dorm room that they will then have to pack up and ship across the country. Don’t worry, it’ll take for the rest of eternity for them to do it. I’ve been steadily packing up my apartment since last Wednesday. It’s still not done. To make matters worse, I finally had to come to terms with the fact that I should probably throw away my old pair of Chucks. We’re about one step away from being able to look through the sole of my shoe through the foot opening. At no point should a shoe also serve the dual purpose of periscope. It’d be different if I was stranded on a deserted island, like a cast member of Lost. Then we could turn it into some type of weapon or GPS triangulation device with the help of Sayid or the crazy French lady, Rousseau. Unfortunately, I am on a completely different crazy island, and here in Manhattan, people don’t take too kindly to you waddling around, looking through the hole in the bottom end of your shoe.