I lived in the ugliest house on Ward Street, a road in the far and frightening depths of South… I lived in the ugliest house on Ward Street, a road in the far and frightening depths of South Oakland where no God-fearing freshman ventures purposely, in a derelict wooden shack with terrible, blue window adornments and doused in crusty, white paint. A decomposing roof encased the concrete porch that had been strewn with the shattered remains of beer bottles since the day the seven roommates moved in.

This was “The Real World” on crack, and in this sordid tale of thugs, drugs and Martha Stewart’s personal hell, the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Fester moved in on Saturday, with a bed, spray paint and 10 hits of ecstasy to peddle at the party we threw that night. Gomez also arrived that day. After the closet door collapsed onto him while he was attempting to house his Roca Wear, he stuck his finger in the light socket to assess its efficiency.

I, Cousin It, had been there for a week, and, after locating the fridge in the backyard and shoveling the mound of dirt that came as the only furnishing in my bedroom, had made a steady effort to soak the entire dwelling in beer.

Since Pugsley’s arrival the day after me, smoke constantly billowed from his room. Friends and acquaintances were coming, going, buying and selling at a swift pace. We worried about the issues posed by the power that arbitrarily shut off and our new indoor fridge that didn’t turn on.

Within the next three days, Lurch broke his door into two shards of splintered wood paneling. He didn’t know that his lock could be opened with an emery board, knife or any other thin, flat household object. That same Tuesday night, beer exploded in the basement bathtub, creating a marshy climate for mold to sprout in and a pungent stench to rise.

We had already located the auxiliary entrance to the three-story fire hazard, through the living room window that refused to lock, and possibly another through the corroding chicken wire. Shards embedded in the carpet attacked the feet of naive visitors who actually dared to venture barefoot.

This place should have been condemned.

In the next two weeks, the washing machine emptied an arsenal of detergent to cascade over the beer skunked on the uneven floor. The second-floor hallway window converted to a urinal and vomit receptacle for those who couldn’t make it 10 feet to the bathroom.

The living room was almost barren, the brand new couch marred with blunt burns and gunk. A pathetic collection of Miller High Life and 99 Berries bottles adorned the dusty mantle. My paintings were the sole decorations on the beer-stained walls, one of which depicted Jack Nicholson’s diabolical grin in “The Shining,” as he burst through a splintered door ready to hack his housemates to bits.

A 13-inch television perched precariously on the chair Gomez’s family found on the side of the road. The only set that played the full range of digital cable, it was predominantly used to indulge Fester and Pugsley’s fascination with horse races when they, with Lurch and Gomez, were not too stoned to locate the remote.

Their preferred means of smoking was through Phillie Blunts that were abbreviated to Ls because, according to Pugsley, “there’s a lot of Ls in the word ‘Phillie.'” They sliced the cheap cigars and dumped the tobacco into mounds on the floor before filling them with the “mad chronic, yo,” so that, after a month, I lobotomized the vacuum cleaner to remove a tumor of Phillie Blunt innards clogging the machine.

Within two months, we finally got a doorknob for the bathroom, I kicked a dent in the living room wall and Fester created an airtight chamber when he spray-painted his bedroom.

Soon the combustible house was christened a crib. Thing, Wednesday and I hid our liquor, and the cold came through my persistently ajar window that I attempted to mend with towels, newspaper and duct tape. Soon the house would explode, but miraculously it was not when Fester tested for natural gas by flicking on a lighter.

The house was destined for legal intervention, which came in the form of a Jerry Springer-esque trial that gestated for about as long as a pregnancy. But for the time being, I combed my hair over my face and shuffled away from the constant Master P soundtrack.

Clean up blunt innards with Lucy Leitner at [email protected].