I am spending this evening in The American Jerk Home Office and Fortress, nestled in a secure location in a southern suburb of Boston. Oh sure, some people might call it a shitty one-bedroom apartment in the crappy part of a one-horse shithole, but I call those people my girlfriend, and, well… me. This place sucks.
I moved here ten months ago, after my last landlord decided to take advantage of the hot real estate market by selling my apartment off as a condo. He decided this without performing due diligence like inspecting the place to see just what the hell I’d been up to in there for seven years, or asking any of my neighbors why they forked the sign of the evil eye at my door every time they passed. I’m not apologizing; I’ve never been the kind of guy who lets his aversion to ever allowing a landlord to enter his home to trump the fact that I don’t know how to repair a toilet. Let’s just say that the old place is still on the market.
So, faced with a move I didn’t want in the first place, I decided on this place when I inspected it and realized that I fucking hated looking at apartments and that if I took this one I could stop. So I signed a year-long lease without doing my own due dilligence, which would have told me that the town’s bar (Yes, bar. The singular is tragically not a typo) closes at 10:45. You can get beer later in prison… but to be fair, having met some of my neighbors, I have to admit that they have better shivs.
My kitchen is smaller than a mobile meth lab in a Kia, although not as well equipped. When I cook in there I try not to fart so I don’t give myself e-coli. The place is so Goddamned drafty that my testicles did not descend until the first day of spring. My windows are located directly above the dumpster and across the street from a working chocolate factory, giving my apartment the homey smell of rotting flesh, sulfur and burning brownies; every morning when the alarm goes off, I have a second when I think that I died and woke up in hell as Rachael Ray.
So now I spend most of my nights at my girlfriend’s place just to avoid this stinkpit; I’m only here maybe one night a week. My point being, if once a week, for the next five weeks until my lease expires, the Website sucks? That’s the night I was writing at home. Because it’s hard to crank up the funny when I have to break away every seven minutes to fire up the XBox and get into a gunfight with the cops in GTA: San Andreas. Trust me: if you lived here, you wouldn’t want the sketchy neighbors on the other side of the paper-thin walls to stop hearing sustained automatic weapons fire, either.
[tags]Home, moving, apartments, Dark humor[/tags]
