Three hours... I am not exaggerating. In fact, I am DISexaggerating, because it was actually 3.5 hours... Three and a half hours of talking about myself.
I did discover a few things though.
The restroom at the food bank I volunteer at smells just like orange creamsicles... It's official! I'm never eating orange creamsicles again!
The best thing about my new apartment is, hands down, the proximity to gay bars. Also, I am not at all saddened by the propensity of gay men to buy me drinks, call me "gorgeous", and laugh at my jokes... And empathize with my newly recognized aging.
HA HA! Look at the new "fine lines" on my forehead! And you say "OY!" when you get out of bed in the morning too? And how about those younguns nowadays?! And what do you do to git those kids off your lawn?
I think I might never leave.
You know you've moved to the Central District when you can no longer get pizza delivered. Because, OOH! My neighborhood is so scary! With its gay bars and its synagogue and its pie shop... And its (gasp!) black people.
Shudder!
You also know you've moved here when your apartment is now ENORMOUS. So enormous that the large amount of crap that used to fill every square foot of space now fills 0% of space. Observe.
Will you look at that? This living room has no personality. It's the Kristin Stewart of living rooms. Also, there is so much floor space I can hold Wii Just Dance parties in here and no one will fall over anything.
And this bedroom just wants to be alone.
Seriously. Someone needs to hire me immediately so I can get to buying more crap.
What happens when you get laid off:
Nothing. Nothing happens. Because it is super boring being laid off. Also, you start ironing your dish towels, cleaning your faucets with a toothbrush, and acting like you know the people on the TV.
What happens when you move to a ground floor apartment:
The sudden realization that you are gross. Everyone can see you with your bed-head, in your PJ's with the hole in it, eating bagels! Close your blinds!
What happens when you take Geriatric Mark to the bear bar by your new apartment:
He is his normal, affable self. He will sit there like, hey! This is totally normal for me, and I am not at all uncomfortable! His eyeballs will stay firmly planted inside his head and everything. And then you will leave. And then he will not know what to do with himself.
My Pretend Arizona Boyfriend: I am so going to kick your ass.
Me: You can't kick my ass. I'm a ninja!
My Pretend Arizona Boyfriend: Ninjas have grace and agility. YOU ARE NOT A NINJA.
Me: What are you talking about? I have cat like reflexes!
My Pretend Arizona Boyfriend: DEAD cat reflexes.
Seriously. WHERE ARE YOU HIDING THE STEAMED RICE CAKES, SEATTLE? There are 20,000 Chinese here! WHY NO RICE CAKES?! WHERE ARE THEY?! WHERE?!?
Is there some secret underground steamed rice cake speakeasy I don't know about? Has someone stolen all the old Chinese ladies and is keeping them locked up, forcing them to ferment rice and harvest pandanus leaves?
I cannot survive on donuts alone.
* This post could also be titled "What's a Bitch Gotta Do For Haw Flakes".
This coffee tastes like pencil... I don't even eat pencils, and I know that this coffee tastes like pencil. It is PENCIL-ICIOUS.
Now go on... Share your cry-baby wah-wah problems in the comments. I feel your pain.