I have been asked to write you a post, moyi druzhki. So here goes.
Today, I rushed home all rosy-cheeked and stanky from the gym, took a seat at my command post, and summoned City Pages to find me an apartment. I called the number of the very first one I found in the appropriate neighborhood, and fifteen minutes later, I was there checking it out. This apartment is too unbelievably perfect for me. It’s exactly the right location, within walking distance of Lake Calhoun, close but not too damn close to Uptown, and near a giant cemetery where all my various -philias can be, uh, never mind. Anyway! Because it’s just that great, I’m sure I’m totally going to jinx it and not get it at all, and end up living somewhere completely inconvenient and lame, such as St. Paul. Please to be crossing your fingers on my behalf, thank you very much. I realized while looking at this apartment that I had been out of the apartment-looking market for so long (4 years, which is far too distant for my feeble memory to even conjure) that I had no idea what questions to ask. I knew the rent, and that my cats would cost me $100, which is a remarkable bargain for three such large and hungry animals. I knew how to apply and what utilities I’d have to pay for, and even the number of bedrooms, because I counted them myself. So instead I told him my story, as if I thought he’d care. But he did, and I ended up learning about his family and his business and maybe I even tried to sell him my house. Just a little. He seemed a lot friendlier after that, and told me to come by tomorrow and they’d get it all set up so’s I can take up residence in, um, 8 days? Holy shit. You know, I wish I could ask everyone to tell me their story. I spend so much time wondering. Wouldn’t it be awesome to just go up to a stranger and say, ‘You look interesting. Tell me about your life.’ Yeah, it’s a recipe for strangeness. But still. Maybe we could start something good. Good night, sleep tight, and all that crap about bedbugs and such.Jenni