I don’t blame the workers.

Apartment shopping! The best. 

When I left Los Angeles for Portland last week, the construction workers had (I thought) almost finished the structure of the house they were building behind my apartment. I was looking forward to seeing what the roof looked like when I came home.

Fast-forward to last Friday, I come home and see (WHAT THE FUCK!) that it’s a huge two story affair, towering over my building. I go inside to see that all but one of my windows will be at least partially blocked when it’s done. Thoughts like “How is this legal?,” “Why don’t I just live in fucking New York?,” and “Oh, I’m leaving this motherfucker” all ring in my head. It’s now Monday and, literally as I type this, hammering and band-sawing is going on around 15 feet from where I sit.

Anyway, I’m now looking for a new apartment. It’s just time to get the hell out. This weekend all the things I don’t like about the place came back to me in a rush. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter, more so than it is outside. Most of it is covered in a thick orange carpet that visibly builds your arm and shoulder muscles every time you vacuum it. My landlord lives next door. More and more people keep moving onto my street, and parking is getting scarce (note: I literally have fantasies about renting six identical cars, parking them all on my street when everyone’s at work, then leaving town for weeks). 

I still want to live on the east side, and the cool thing is, I’m now month-to-month so I can leave whenever I find something I like. Also, I don’t like half my furniture, so hopefully moving won’t be as bad as when I moved in. 

And…if I still live here when the dickhead owners who built this window-blocking monstrosity start showing it to people, I’m blasting death metal out the window. I fucking HOPE they come by with their prospective buyers to ask me to turn it down. I will open the door to my apartment wearing nothing but tighty-whiteys and holding an open bottle of plastic bottle tequila. After belching loudly, I will fill my underwear with piss and shake my crotch around, asking “What the FUCK y’all want?!!”

For now, though, I’ll put up with the noise. I don’t blame the workers.