So, We Meet Again

Since I created this blog to keep everyone posted about my travels, I kinda didn't know what to do when I stopped traveling. I kept thinking that I'd write one more entry, summarizing everything I learned from my travels and revealing how many miles I traveled, and maybe even finally posting some pictures of yawning crocodiles and baby elephants and the like. But, somehow I never mustered up enough gravitas to write an entry worthy of my travels and all the self-growth that occurred. (And, I still haven't downloaded my photos, not even the awesome one of the leopard in a tree devouring a dead impala, that should be on the cover of National Geographic.)

A few times I was thinking of writing about my mini-adventures in suburbia, since that's still kind of traveling. This idea popped into my head most recently when I went a'gambling with my parents and aunt/uncle at the Dover Racetrack a few weekends ago. I was conjuring up pithy observations about the experience while playing nickel slots. (e.g., The pungent smell of desperation and bus trip hung thick in the air.) But, somehow I never mustered up enough energy to describe those kinds of trips.

But now, I've decided to break my silence, mainly just to gripe. To bitch and moan about the total absence of inhabitable apartments in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. I've been looking for a few weeks now, and I can't believe how many crack dens are out there. Wait -- that's a "Cozy, junior 1BR crack den w/ open floor-plan, and original details." It's shocking how many slumlords exist, with delusions of grandeur dancing like sugerplum fairies in their greedy little heads. And the ones that aren't crack dens, all have something strange happening, like the whole apartment is only nine-feet wide. The kookiest one so far was a building where the landlord decorated the hallways and staircases with lots of wicker furniture and tchotchkes, as if it were part of her apartment. That doesn't sound kooky on its face, but if you'd seen the knick-knacks, and met the new-age landlord, you'd understand.

There were one or two apartments that, in a moment of weakness and desperation, I almost considered taking. But in both instances, I detected some serious unease from the landlord about the fact that I don't have a job. Never mind that I have sufficient cash to pay my rent. Never mind that it's not exactly so easy to get a job in a different city, when no one will rent you an apartment in that city without a job. (Chicken? Meet the egg.) I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, where she goes into that boutique to buy some non-hooker clothing, and they won't sell her anything, even though she has the money (and a pair of thigh high suede boots). Dammit, people. I'm not a hooker. (But if I were, I'd have a job then, no?) Rent me an apartment.

Disappointed at all the one bedrooms for rent, I have been considering the idea of moving in with a roommate for a few months until I get a job and then I'd buy a place. Actually, I should say that I was kicking around the idea of finding a roommate until I saw this ad on craigslist.

Seriously, someone shoot me and put me out of my misery. Or, shoot them. This ad belongs on gawker. I'm not sure what I find more troubling -- the fact that they are haters to liberals, or the fact that they won't let you put anything in the kitchen except a knicknack...But you should feel like it's your house, too. Really. Just so long as you don't say anything too liberal. And so long as your knicknack isn't too tacky. Cuz it isn't a frat house.

Sheesh. I need a drink after this beezwax. A drink, and an apartment.