I’m homeful!

Over the last 31 days, I have slept in an RV with no sheets, a seedy motel bed (no joke, we actually found porn under a mattress in Ann Arbor), and a variety of friends’ beds and couches. It was certainly fun - in the “Yay, I don’t have a rent payment” sense - but it was time for me to find an apartment and sleep in my own bed, using sheets whose integrity isn’t in question. Luckily, after a last minute search two weekends ago, I found an apartment with a buddy of mine. We got our paperwork in quick and were able to get in our place by October 1st.

It’s a little weird actually. He’s a close family friend that I grew up with back in Melbourne, someone I took tennis lessons and had sleepovers with. Now we’re moving in together, arranging furniture and discussing fake walls, like we’re about to build a fort. And we’ll probably have some old lady come in regularly and clean up after us. This is basically just another sleepover, albeit way more expensive and with stricter move-in rules.

Note to self: don’t destroy him

The new roommate and I share the same last name, which is more annoying than it is cool, because “Thou shalt not sully thy roommate’s online reputation” is like, I dunno, #76 on the list of rules for living with people (btw, sorry Sachin). So now I’ve got to come up with nickname for him, so this site doesn’t show up when someone Googles his full name. I’m having trouble coming up with a good one. So far all I’ve got is: Roomate #7, because he’s the seventh roommate I’ve had in New York (Roommate #15 if you include everyone I’ve stayed with while homeless), or GuyWhosePoolI’veProbablyPeedIn, because, well, its probably true.

(Side note: We had our first “roommate moment” on Monday, the day we moved in. As we were unpacking, my roommate asked me to tie his tie for him to wear the next day. I have no clue why I’m telling you this.)

MurraCurryGramerHill

We’re living on the east side now, somewhere in the intersection of Murray Hill, Curry Hill, and Gramercy. I believe this automatically qualifies me as a douchebag, but given the sheer number of attractive women I’ve seen in my building in the last 48 hours, I am not sure I care. And while I’m sure that’s an excuse that many guys douchebags of this area use, there’s also a lot of great restaurants and bars and…

(Side note 2: I live dangerously close to a Taco Bell now. Like walking distance close. Not that my previous place wasn’t, because it was certainly a walkable distance (one I did a few times…..hey-o nested parentheses!). But this one is MUCH, MUCH closer.)

I has a bucket

Anyway, I’m still in the process of moving in, which I’ve discovered is only slightly less of a pain in the ass than moving out. I’m finding things in boxes that I should never have packed in the first place. Remember the trash can dilemma from my moving out post? Well that (bigger) trash can was thrown out, but last night while searching for my iPod charger, I opened a box and realized I saved not one, not two, but THREE of these smaller IKEA trash cans. I have no clue why I saved them. They retail brand new for A DOLLAR NINETY-NINE, which makes me ever so glad I sprung for a larger storage unit. Wouldn’t want to have to replace those! The worst part of this is that my roommate brought kitchen and bathroom trash cans in with his move too, including one of the same model, meaning we have four of these fucking things sitting at our apartment. Anyone want one?