It's warm, again--praise the sun! My peas are beginning to sprout and I have an unquenchable hunger for stairs, much like Tobey Maguire's irresistible consumption of Kirsten Dunst's hair. I began my trip driving down Harrison Avenue like any other day; birds chirping, pedestrians jogging, the sign waver for Olympia Furniture and Sleep Co. pelvic-thrusting his way to greatness for minimum wage--it was your standard day in Oly.
Days earlier an old drunkard in the Westside Tavern tipped me off about a stairwell a ways down Harrison, just before the first round-about--I knew the one. I parked my car just past the brick-laden Capital House Apartments on Sherman St., taking note of a tall tower within the complex--a stairwell lying dormant, waiting to be reviewed. After a couple-minutes-walk down the 45 degree-angled street, I arrived at the stairwell. It consists of a firm, cement/gravel foundation covered in natural debris and cigarette butts (naturally unnatural), illegible spray-painted insignia courtesy of the city's finest artists, far-from-straight metal pipe hand rails (lead?), and, on either side, green vines strangling and parasitically draining the trees of their nutrients like Alex Jones drains Kiwi Watermelon Capri Sun I.V. bags straight into the largest vein in his neck.
It didn't take long for me to put my face down to the bumpy stairs. While no cars were passing by to kink-shame me, I released my tongue from its moist prison (I sure never thought I'd write those two words together) and snapped a selfie, capturing the sun's glare. After spitting out wood chips I raised a hand to the sky and flipped off our yellow dwarf of a star for judging me and my fetish. I mean, someone has to step up and review the world's stairwells--it might as well be the guy who sees them as a waifu.
I marched up the rest of the stairs and snapped some lewd photos. I was curious to uncover where this stairwell lead; a well-off cul-de-sac was waiting for me at the top. These houses have a gorgeous view of Bud Inlet. This community also runs gladiator-style death matches within the circular dead-end street. I watched in awe as a raccoon skeleton-armored man swung a high-battery-powered Kitchen Aide mixer at another man who was wearing armor made entirely out of college course geometry books interwoven with bass guitar strings, wielding a lemon juice-filled Super Soaker in one hand and a broken craft beer bottle in the other. When the aristocrats saw me staring, they yelled, "That's a wrap!", ended the brawl, and ushered me away from their private "film set". One day I, myself, hope to be used like a tool by the ruling class to fight for their entertainment and then be discarded when my body is broken and useless.
A boy can dream.
I give this stairwell 3 littered 7-11 Big Gulps out of 5.
