Let’s talk about housing for a second. I’ve lived at six or seven addresses in the past year. About a year ago, I moved out of my old apartment and back in with my father. Then I decided I should really get my own place and found a couple friends who needed someone to sublet their place for the summer. So I moved in there. As the summer wound down, I tried (unsuccessfully) to find another place, and when my friends moved back into their place, I was forced to sleep on another one’s floor. That was fun. Then I found a place on Craigslist belonging to a friendly Jewish woman who, shortly after I moved in, discovered she was pregnant and started taking out all of her issues on me. Then I found another place through Craigslist that turned out to be exactly what I needed. Then I ran out of money and had to move back in with my father. Then I left for New York and moved in with a couple of people who I’d met through my department’s Facebook page. After five minutes in my presence, one of them decided she didn’t like me and asked me to find another place. No, really. I’m 3,000 miles from home and I have no money. For the time being, all I’ve got is this room that they’re allowing me to occupy until I find another place. Forgive me if I’m not too enthusiastic about looking.
The most irritating part about moving is updating your address. Back when I received discs from Netflix, I was changing my address every time I went home for a break. Now, I have a shirt coming my way from Teefury and a subscription to The Economist but no idea where to send them. For the time being, I’m going to just tell everyone I live with the people I met through my department’s Facebook page. If they want to get rid of me sooner, they’ll have to be okay with sending a poor college student out onto the street with nothing more than a few positive wishes. Could you do that? I couldn’t.
I was truly speechless when my prospective roommate told me she didn’t think things were going to work out with me. I’d flown all the way across the country under the assumption that I’d have a place to stay, but she was so insecure and judgmental that she didn’t think that I’d fit into the warm and friendly atmosphere of her apartment. She sensed an edge to me that would make living with me difficult. I think she is confusing cause and effect. I meet a lot of people who are like that. New York is an awfully big city. There are a lot of plays around here that I’d like to see. I would have killed to see the revival of Death of a Salesman with Philip Seymour Hoffman, but I couldn’t get tickets. Oh well. With any luck, I’ll be here a while longer.
My favorite part was her repeating, “This is really hard for me.” No, it’s hard for me, you bitch. You still have a place to live.
Other than that, I’m really liking the city. Central Park is pretty, and there are two good bookstores within walking distance of where I live. As a man of letters, my first question upon discovering a new place is, “Where are all the books?” Just after my roommate dropped the bombshell, I picked up a copy of A Sand County Almanac, one of the key texts for anyone who wants to learn about environmentalism. If you haven’t read “Thinking Like a Mountain“, do so. It won’t take you long, and you’ll understand far better what drives me to do what I do.
I’m getting very tired of people telling me that they don’t like my “tone”. With very few exceptions, “I don’t like your tone” is just a coward’s way of saying, “You’re totally right, but I don’t have the balls to admit it.” I am right pretty much all of the time, so it’s understandable that lesser mortals might become defensive around me, but even so, they should have the cojones to recognize that the problem is them, not me. I can’t force this cunt to let me stay in her apartment. But I can let her know what a terrible person she is being.
I’ve been kicked out of or had to leave apartments before. This is the first time I’ve had to leave for doing literally nothing.
It’s difficult to find a home. I’ve been trying for several years now. Every time I think I’ve found the place, it gets yanked away. I’d really like this one to work itself out, for her to realize her mistake and tell me to stay. But I’m not counting on it. I’m not counting on very many things at all. Maybe that means I’m getting stronger. Then again, maybe it just means I’m getting tired. Either way, I’m still in an unfamiliar city with a degree to earn and very little idea how I’m going to pay for it. I need all the help I can get.