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Clinging futilly...desperately... PARASITICALLY to economic life on the border of "scenic" Sullivan County NY (AKA Dante Allegeri's missing Tenth Hell {look up Dante's Inferno}), Woodridge (or Da Wood) is an eerie, happy-go-undead little hovel of a few hundred people. At a happier, more prosperous point in time its inhabitants saw fit to classify their collective dwellings/buisinessess (such as they are/were) as an " [incorporated] village". The label stuck and was justified for a time(so I'm told), [untill] the local economy crashed (for reasons I won't discuss) before I was born. Not that it was a perfect place, but it had a few friendly, home-run buisinesses, visitors abound come Summertime, as well as an abundance of vision and job [opportunity] and a halfway decent school system. There was in my childhood (and still IS/ARE) now only THREE year-round privately owned and operated buisinesses in town (down from 7 or 8 and not including my father's), so little communal activity that when you walk [down the street] you think you're the only living person within a hundred miles... and good luck finding a steady job in woodridge, or (God help you) starting your own buisiness in anyththing other than cadavers/poisonous herbs/other basic components of [Necromantic] spells. Good. Fuckin'. Luck. Fucking cesspool.

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