live from green street
Everyday I look at Craigslist apartments listings in hopes of finding the perfect demented nest for Ryan and myself. The search is not entirely fruitless, and not entirely futile, but it does involve a healthy dose of pipe-dreaming and chance luck. Financially, it would be wise not to move until March or April. June, even. But still, I look. Everyday, I look.
It's become an addiction of sorts. I click through countless pictures of rooms in houses I cannot afford. I envision my clutter atop the many mantles. I pour bubbles in hundreds of bathtubs, some claw-foot, some built-in. I don't even bother with the apartments that only have shower stalls. A nice bathtub has become very important to me.
I sip lemonade on various porches, stewwing in the mugginess of a Boston July. I load my dirty clothing in a glorious, spinning, swirling, gyrating machine (as opposed to kneading it beneath the kitchen faucet). When the laundry is clean, I remove it from the machine and put it in another machine that quickly makes the clothing soft, dry, and fragrant (as opposed to the stiff, damp exoskeletons strewn across my door-tops and shower poles).
I smell soups and chicken creations in the clean, functional kitchen. There are no mouse turds on the countertops. No expired milk projects in the refrigerator. I stroll through the spacious layout without slippers or socks, not fearing that my already rotten feet may catch an even rottener strain of foot rottenness.
I do this for about an hour each day, and occasionally Ryan or I call a number and actually look at an apartment.
But it always ends the same way. We are back, frozen to the point of paralysis in my bedroom. There are still rats fucking and fighting and dying in the walls all around. The bathroom sink still hasn't drained for two weeks. The oven pilot is still broken. The landlord is still an unresponsive crackhead. I close the computer and wait, pathetically excited about the chance of a new listing popping up in the days to come....
...just.....
.. waiting..........
It's become an addiction of sorts. I click through countless pictures of rooms in houses I cannot afford. I envision my clutter atop the many mantles. I pour bubbles in hundreds of bathtubs, some claw-foot, some built-in. I don't even bother with the apartments that only have shower stalls. A nice bathtub has become very important to me.
I sip lemonade on various porches, stewwing in the mugginess of a Boston July. I load my dirty clothing in a glorious, spinning, swirling, gyrating machine (as opposed to kneading it beneath the kitchen faucet). When the laundry is clean, I remove it from the machine and put it in another machine that quickly makes the clothing soft, dry, and fragrant (as opposed to the stiff, damp exoskeletons strewn across my door-tops and shower poles).
I smell soups and chicken creations in the clean, functional kitchen. There are no mouse turds on the countertops. No expired milk projects in the refrigerator. I stroll through the spacious layout without slippers or socks, not fearing that my already rotten feet may catch an even rottener strain of foot rottenness.
I do this for about an hour each day, and occasionally Ryan or I call a number and actually look at an apartment.
But it always ends the same way. We are back, frozen to the point of paralysis in my bedroom. There are still rats fucking and fighting and dying in the walls all around. The bathroom sink still hasn't drained for two weeks. The oven pilot is still broken. The landlord is still an unresponsive crackhead. I close the computer and wait, pathetically excited about the chance of a new listing popping up in the days to come....
...just.....
.. waiting..........