Tuesday, August 18, 2015

The Hunt For Our First Apartment

It's been almost four months now, and I'm still alive/not in jail, meaning my girlfriend and I have successfully refrained from murdering each other. Yes, us cute kids finally decided to move out together, though I don't know why we thought close proximity forever was a good idea. Relationships are fragile. One minute you're happy eating pizza in bed, and the next, you're being chased with a fork because you fucked up the IKEA instructions. But it's been over three months, and I expected to want to murder her way more than I really do. I like, barely want to murder her at all. Things have actually been comically great here. I don't see my family nearly as much, which is great because I hate them, Susie and I watch the Food Network every day and give Chef Ramsay the finger, we eat nothing but chicken nuggets, and I walk around naked all the fucking time. Fuck me, if we never had to buy groceries, I'd say I'm living the dream.

What'd you style your hair with, boy? Cat semen?

Oh and did I mention our apartment is fucking baller? This place is amazing. There are flaws, like the fact that we're in a basement suite, and the small child that lives upstairs sounds like she has sledgehammers for legs, is continually smashing grandfather clocks into walls, while on horse back. I wouldn't go so far as to describe this place as "divine", but you put any of those HGTV people in here, and they're cumming all up in their pants. But how did we get here? Oh yes, there was a road that lead here. A journey that I would describe as "interesting", in a word. "Creative" is oddly fitting as well. I didn't have a whole lot of expectations going in to apartment hunting when we started. I figured as long as wasps don't shoot out of the shower head, I'm happy. And then we visited some places, and if I had to come up with some things to avoid, these places came up with things better than what I could come up with.

I don't remember exactly when Susie and I decided to move in together. We'd talked about it for years, and then at a certain point we were buying spoons and shit and looking for places. Being an adult is funny, because no one bothers to explain the timeline to you. Just to prepare any younger readers, I have news. There is no timeline. At some point it becomes awkward living with your parents, and you just kind of find yourself doing shit. It's a strange time. Eventually showering with another person becomes more economical than sexy, it's weird. Moving out is fucked up, because eventually it just happens, and then you have to pretend you know how to take care of yourself. But first you have to find a place, and it's not too hard, but finding the right place can be a little tricky. Your trials will mostly be filled with errors, sorry to say. Until you find the right place, shopping for apartments is like going shopping for dildos. You're getting fucked no matter what.

Factoring everything in, we narrowed our list down to four properties. That's a lot of fucking work embalmed and dumbed down to a single sentence... But anyway, the first place we went to look at was a main floor, 2 bedroom suite. It was within our price range, it was in a nice neighborhood, and the pictures of it looked really nice. I would later make a note to never trust pictures again, but I also have to praise that photographer. I don't know how he or she managed to make that place beautiful. You'd have an easier time making a dead body look beautiful. That's Susan Boyle's make-up artist talent right there. We scheduled a viewing with the owner, or landlord, or someone, we don't actually know who the fuck the person was, on reflection. We found the place easily enough and parked around the corner. I was excited, we were so close to a lot of nice things like parks and grocery stores, and then we started walking towards the house, and some red flags went up immediately. If you've watched any home improvement shows before, and they make you nervous to own a home because of all the insidious, small issues that plague homes, don't worry. The glaring issues are easy to spot.

For starters, the wet toilet paper posing as a storm door on the side of the house looked as though someone attacked it with a combine harvester. The door, which was a plank of wood that was on the verge of surrendering to the aggressive termite clearly invading the house, looked like a hatchet wielding tiger laid siege to it, and yes, I meant one giant termite. But it wasn't all bad. The two foot tall weeds growing on top of the souls of the Indians those people angered for living there was an attractive feature, and that jagged, re-purposed set piece for the Saw movies pretending to be a fence? That just tickled me pink, to see what looked like evidence of bolt cutter use from the fucking inside. We travelled further up the walk to discover an abandoned baby stroller that had blood in it, and at the top of the stairs leading to the front door, was a bucket full of cigarette butts. There were a few peppered around the front yard as well, though I wouldn't go so far as to describe it as a "yard", the same way I wouldn't say a meth addict "has teeth".

I was ready to run in the opposite direction fast enough to set a land speed record, but for some reason, I wanted to at least tell this person, "We're not interested." It's moments like these where I almost hate my parents for raising me too well. I wish I was the type of person to scream "Oh my god fuck this stank ass place" and throw a rock through the window for good measure, but someone had already done that. Upon further study, it looked more like someone had thrown a brick through the window from the inside. I'd be interested to know what kind of argument took place that warranted that as a response. Eventually a guy answered the door, and that's when all my hope was dashed, like if Emma Watson grew a dick on her forehead. Although even then I might want to make that work... This man's eyes were blood red, either from the perpetual smog inside the house, or from the demon that lived inside him. His pupils were the size of plates, and they appeared to be salsa dancing, and his face looked he used it to head butt a land mine, or a Hellraiser cosplay went seriously wrong.

For convenience of reference

Out of morbid curiosity, still at a safe distance, I took a look inside, and if I had walked in there, I would have chopped my feet off and needed eyeball transplants. I told the creature we weren't interested, which is when he told us the guy we were supposed to talk to wasn't even fucking there, and thank god. I wasn't too jazzed at that point to meet patient fucking zero. As we were walking away, I heard screaming from inside the house, either from the hostages screaming for help, the ghost of the baby clearly murdered in that stroller, or from the tenants running for their lives from the ever encroaching army of nuclear ants. We went home to collect ourselves, regroup, maintain our enthusiasm and optimism about moving out, and headed over to the next property we had lined up that day. Surely this one will improve our outlook. Moving out is a great idea, it must be! Yes!

We got to the second house, located near the University, this time we were investigating a basement. The pictures made the house look cute, it was small and yellow, the area looked charming, and then we walked up to it ourselves, and "cute" wasn't the first word that came to mind. "Yellow" didn't spring to mind either. Dehydrated piss looks better than that house. I wasn't exactly sure how it was standing. It looked like there was a perpetual rain cloud above it, because every house around it was immaculate. This house looked like it was being eaten away by sea water. If another tornado touches down in my city, that's the first house it's going after. As we walked up the front steps, or that pile of wood with nails in it, if you want to get technical, I noticed the unmistakable scent of weed. The only thing more obvious is old lady perfume. The people who lived in the house had made an effort to mask the smell by drenching the exterior walls in cologne, but covering up weed is like trying to disguise a boner in class. It can't be done.

It took a while for the guy to answer the door, mostly because he was getting dressed in the front foyer. I could see him, there were gaps in the black spray paint on the glass. The fact that he had to wrestle with the door to get it open wasn't a good sign. Once he got it open, he told us to go around the side, for which I was very thankful. I wasn't very confident about the stairs we were standing on, or whatever they were. It felt as though they'd used the perfect material to absorb as much water as possible and never let go. You could renovate those steps with a spoon. We went around the side and got ushered into our desired basement, and this is when I realized I shouldn't have bothered bringing my flashlight and outlet tester. When you're looking at a place, you're supposed to shine a line in corners, test outlets, test the lights, flush the toilet, etc. If you don't, and you flush the toilet the first day and a dead rat shoots up your ass? Well, there's a couple problems there, as you can imagine. There was no need to investigate thoroughly with this place. Looking at this place was like being a doctor, and having your patient walk in with a pair of scissors in his head. Easy to see the problem there.

First off, walking down the ridiculously steep stairs to the basement, the railing looked like someone ripped a branch off a dying tree and glued it to the wall. The basement itself looked like someone started to dig a hole, and then gave up. Susie and I would have the posture of the letter "S" before long. Those ceilings were so low, I half expected the guy to put on a helmet with a light on it, and dive into a squeeze. The flooring I would describe as "creative" or "dungeon-esque". Someone was hanged by their thumbs in this basement at some point, though I don't know how effective that would have been with their feet firmly planted on the ground. Some sections of the laminate flooring looked like they'd be ripped up by the aggressive rats living there, and whatever that carpet was that resembled pubic hair, fell off the spectrum of appealing colors long ago.

This was when we realized this was obviously a student property, meaning it was reserved entirely for foreign students who probably slept on tire beds, who don't give a fuck about their living situation, so long as it's not next to gunfire or explosives. The two guys who gave us the tour were super nice, but they kept saying that all of the furniture was included. To them that probably sounded like a great selling point, but to me it sounded like they were desperate to get rid of it. It's like they'd mistakenly built the crawlspace around the furniture and couldn't get it out. One guy pointed out the "newly renovated" shower, which looked like an array of sample tiles were stolen from Home Depot, and affixed to the wall with scotch tape. And I don't know what species of insect it was that was clearly trying to tunnel into the shower, but I wasn't eager to find out. I would sooner shower in a tipped over outhouse. I wanted to get the fuck out of that bathroom as quickly as possible, I was waiting for a hand to come out of the black fungus in the shower and choke me to death.

Oh god, and the kitchen? There's more room in airplane kitchens. There were no cupboards, and that easy bake oven they called a stove? I was horrified when he went to turn it on. You could bomb Hiroshima all over again with that fucking thing. I don't know why the stove top was colored orange or why it was covered in bite marks, but I was ready to conclude this tour, but he had to show me the fridge. If I put a 4 gallon jug of milk in that fridge, it would have fallen over. You could play volleyball with that piece of shit fridge. I've made houses out of blankets more sturdy than that fridge, and my shoe has more space in it. Had we lived there, it would have been great. We could eat one apple at a time and maybe a saltine. We were on our way out of the place at this point when the guy pointed out the air duct they labelled "laundry room". Someone definitely got murdered in that broom closet. I saw nail marks from the last person dragged in there.

Then the guy showed us the back yard and said, "If you like to barbecue, we have a barbecue!" Really? Because sometimes I like barbecuing without a fucking barbecue. That poor barbecue looked like it had been under a tarp longer than most mummies. If we had started it, it would have looked like the bomb at Helm's Deep in The Two Towers. I'd explain what the back yard looked like, had I been able to see it. It was trapped under a thick carpet of dead leaves, beer bottles, and thatch grass taller than most children, I'm almost positive I saw a shoe with an amputated foot still inside of it, and there was a tooth dangling from a spider web. Every unsolved mystery in the world is in that back yard. Big Foot sleeps there, directions to Area 51 are there, O.J. Simpson's other glove is in there, and so on. As much as I was curious to see who shot Kennedy, we weren't sold, so off we went to the third property.

At this point I was comforted by the fact that the last two places on our list couldn't possibly be worse than the first two, but on reflection, that was just the side of me that was now desensitized. We could have walked into the place and seen them shrinking heads, and I'd just ask if utilities are included with the rent. We found the place easily enough, and we were looking at the 2 bedroom main floor. We got there early, and soon after we did, a guy came out of the house and asked, "Are you Jennifer?" "Who the fuck is Jennifer?" I thought, before I realized that some stupid ass bitch was supposed to be here to look at the property, and she didn't show up. "In your face, bitch!" I thought, as I strolled up the attractive walk to shake the attractive man's hand. Seriously, he was an attractive man. There's something about a man holding a screwdriver and fixing a light that gets my balls tingling.

Mike Holmes in a suit. You didn't think you could cum 8 times before now, did you?

The house looked nice from the outside, the yard was well kept, the stairs leading up to the front door were brand new, and extremely well built, plus this guy was actively fixing the house. Couple all that with the beautiful pictures of the interior? This place looked like a winner, albeit a bit out of our price range. And then of course we had to actually walk inside.

My boner wouldn't drop that fast if your vagina had barb wire in it. The smell of this place was immediate, and glaring. I've smelled that smell before when I used to own a guinea pig that was a shit factory. That little rodent shit every where like open bags of dog food on helicopter blades. Those shavings smelled like someone had diarrhea at Home Depot. That's about what this house smelled like, except magnified to a disturbing extent. The fact that we weren't choked by that fucking miasma ten feet away from the house is astounding to me. It was like a petting zoo, inside of a cow's asshole. Did a fucking goat live in that house? We'd need pressure washers to get that stink off of us day to day. If a skunk waddled by us he would ask if we farted. If I dutch oven'd Susie in that place, she'd think it was a breath of fresh air, regardless of how many tacos I ate.

It was so heart breaking for a couple reasons. First off, we had finally found a beautiful place, and the stench had to go and ruin it immediately. Sure, you laugh at how I'm using the word "finally" after looking at just two houses, but your mother still makes your lunch, so go fuck yourself. Those were stressful times. My shits have never looked as weird since. Secondly, the guy who was showing us the house was so nice, and he believed it was amazing, and I didn't have the heart to tell him a horse had clearly been farting into this house for years. We had to suffer through the entire tour, or rather, I did. Susie didn't seem to mind so much. I think she may have been in a state of both shock and delirium at the time, and managed to repress the experience while it was happening. Meanwhile, I couldn't get the thought out of my head that a flock of sheep dragged their stinky asses on the floor and ceiling of this house.

We continued the tour out of the kindness of our hearts, and all I'll really say is that the place had a nice layout. I still feel terrible about saying that because of how nice the dude was, but I'm already going to hell so it doesn't matter at this point. The floors were so creaky, any time sex would be going down, it would sound like an old rocking chair going supersonic. Every step I took sounded like a goose getting hit with a golf ball. The guy started showing us all the storage space, of which there was lots, but all of the cabinetry was stained a bizarre shade of orange, not unlike the grease that collects on the base of tomato sauce marinated meatballs, or earwax. What the fuck were the previous tenants doing? Smoking incessantly, rubbing their ears in closets and feeding ponies x-lax brownies? I kind of want to know, actually.

I started inspecting the place a little more carefully, and noticed two dramatic cracks directly underneath the sink plumbing in both the bathroom, and kitchen. Houses rocked by earthquakes have smaller cracks than these. What was strange about it was the fact that there was no evidence of sitting, stagnant water in a puddle. Why? Because the dent in the floor was fucking convex, not concave. You wouldn't find dents this strange in the ceiling of The Mythbusters' facility. I don't know if the water dripped and the flooring swelled upwards instead of slowly buckling under the acidic power of shit tap water, or if The Hulk punched the ceiling of the basement. At the very least, the land lord was gracious enough to remove the stalagmite from the cupboards, but neglected to remove the evidence of vermin. It's both a good and bad sign when you see a mouse trap in the place you want to rent. It's like having an orgasm in a library.

The one thing you didn't need a fine tooth comb for was the floor. The floors were a selling point of the home in the listing, stating that it was the "Original hard wood from the 70's." That's a bit like trying to sell pubic hair from the 70's. Barely anything from the 70's has held up well, except maybe those awesome jungle stripe phones. I didn't even have to look very hard, I could see the asbestos underneath this floor, as the edges of the floor had been eaten away by the fucking Venom symbiote. Great, I can't wait to live here for a while, develop a new strain of super cancer, and grow some new eyeballs on my fucking ball sack. I had to shit my pants after we'd left just to mask the smell.

Then we found this apartment we're currently living in, and while I didn't enjoy that one night I ran into Shelob in my fucking bathroom, or the fact that my upstairs neighbors are perpetually throwing bowling balls at gongs, this place is incredible. I love it here. I get to shit with the bathroom door open, son! I ran out of fucks to give a long time ago. I'm a little disappointed the apartment hunt ended so beautifully. I was looking forward to finding a dead body stuffed in a freezer at some point down the line. So, until we go house hunting and stumble on an abandoned meth lab, as always, go fuck yourself.

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