Flowing Underground

What are we doing here?

Maybe it isn’t the city itself. Maybe it’s just our living situation. I have the most difficult time getting packages delivered, it’s amazing I get anything. Our buzzer has been broken since we moved in. Our roommate has gained a Mom and Dad, essentially. Cleaning, washing dishes, buying stuff for the house — not to mention listening to her endless whining about how poorly she’s treated men and the surprise of them finally getting a clue and bailing. Or it could be the neighborhood, which we really like, aside from the local deli/convenience stores on most corners (no matter where you are in the city). They tend to have flexible pricing. I’ve never before purchased so many things with round numbers as the total due.

Of course, it could be that we’re paying $1,400 a month for a bedroom.* With one bathroom. One had better take a shower the night before if he or

Wanted: The Phone This Woman Found — It's Mine
Wanted: The Phone This Woman Found — It’s Mine

she plans to shower at all. The roommate owns the WC from six or so till eight in the morning. A few weeks ago, I, honest to god, pissed in a bottle. It overflowed a little bit (too much). I was dying.

Other apartments in the area go for $1,600. And hers is probably rent stabilized.

Ultimately, she’s not awful. But I do believe we are paying all her rent. And she claims our part of the utility bill will be the same each month. We’re still waiting to actually see all the bills. She just wanted me to Venmo her the money. They use app a lot up here. It’s owned by PayPal, but doesn’t give you the protection of PayPal. Once you send the funds via Venmo, the recipient has ’em — for good (or ill, as the case may be). Anyway, we still owe her those bills.

But the truth is that it’s the seeming frustration of doing anything (going to the doctor, finding a place to purchase something slightly larger than Duane Reade carries); the stress of work and the long, irregular hours Misty and I are at it; and, likely, a weird expression of homesickness. Or an expression of the fact that I haven’t even had the chance to experience that feeling, to process it yet.

I don’t hate the city. I just don’t like feeling like I’m being taken advantage of. My ass is already raw.

Many people all over the world dream of living in New York City. That I am talking about first-world problems, there’s no doubt.

But Misty and I both sometimes get so sick of it all that we throw up our hands briefly and say, “To hell with it, let’s move to Louisiana.”

Quick note: Lost my phone near Union Square on Sunday. It was dead. A woman found it, but it appears she’s going to ignore the message on the screen asking her to return it. It got a pretty good picture of her, though. I highly recommend Lookout for exactly this reason.

*For comparison’s sake: Misty and I mortgaged a 2,000 square-foot house that was, because I paid a bit extra each month to eat away at the principal, $2,000 a month in University Hills in East Austin.

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