Sartre was wrong. Hell is not other people.
Hell is looking for an apartment with your boyfriend in New York City.
Compared to that, other people are–well, perhaps not a walk in the park, but something much closer to purgatory.
Sartre was wrong. Hell is not other people.
Hell is looking for an apartment with your boyfriend in New York City.
Compared to that, other people are–well, perhaps not a walk in the park, but something much closer to purgatory.
Although, some people are actually worse than appartment hunting.
I was going to say, that depends on the people, doesn’t it?
So, you’re moving?
Can I have your old place?
From what my friends tell me, you’ve an especially satanic trial to get through—I cannot fathom apartment hunting in Manhattan.
Here, in the quaint south, I tune in to shows on Home and Garden like “Small Spaces, Big Style” which highlight the clever ways to deal with a 450 sq foot apartment. I fear that I do not wish to be so clever. I wish the two of you the best of luck.
I feel your pain. It’s a nightmare here in the DC suburbs, too. Why, the last time I wanted to rent an apartment (two years ago), I had to spend at least fifteen minutes online tracking down a suitable place. And then the paperwork took at least another half hour, and I had to wait a whole day for them to do a credit check, and to get a nice two bedroom with 1,100 square feet in a decent neighborhood, I had to pay almost $1,100, and that didn’t even include utilities! Oh, the humanity.
Anapestic, may I be the first to rain deathless curses upon your head. All the way from London. Which may not quite be worse than NYC, but I’d bet money that it is.
…er, but in a friendly, non-flame sort of way, of course.
Back when I lived in Brooklyn there was a joke going around, based on a true news item about a couple of would-be terrorists who were turned in by their roommate (yes, a joke; that’s the difference between NYC and the rest of the country right there, n’est-ce-pas?). It went like this:
“When the news broke that a couple of guys were arrested in a $400 walk-up full of explosives destined for a massive attack on Atlantic Station, Brooklynites were shocked: ‘Atlantic Station–I go through there every morning!’ they said.
Manhattanites were also shocked. ‘A $400 walkup–where do I sign?'”
I wish I’d HAD a BF to split the expenses when I went looking for my first place. I went to the Gay Roommate Service and ended up with a guy who brought a trick home every night. And I had the first-floor front window on 47th and 10th, which meant with all the junkies and sex workers, you could stick your arm out the window, get a needle stuck in it and feel someone up at the same time…
Scrooby, I was in London about a fortnight ago, and every time I saw something that was reasonable priced, I realized that I’d been thinking dollars, and that it was actually about 1.8 times as expensive. This was true whether you were in a restaurant, at the theatre, or peering through the window of an estate agent (or whatever you call them over there). So feel free to rain deathless curses on my head. If you want to be the first to rain said curses, however, I regret to inform you that you’re a couple of decades too late. I appreciate the effort, though.
anapestic, you were in London and didn’t say hello? Tsk.