Home, Sweet Home

Ah, home. A place to live. A place to go to when work is done. Enough with the crap. Shut up.

Home right now sucks. Why? Simple. From the time we began moving in here until now, we've:

• Dripped bleach on the CARPET
• Marked up the walls BIG TIME (and not just in our own apartment - up and down the hallway, too)
• Broke one of those emergency lights, the ones that turn on when the building power goes on
• Gouged our closet door. How? Well ... it was sitting up in our dining room. We took it off the track as a way to help get our GINORMOUS couch into the apartment. Anyway, we planned to leave it off its track until we got the couch back OUT of the apartment (it doesn't fit). Well, one night (in the middle of the damn night, scaring the hell out of everyone probably including our downstairs neighbors), it fell over and hit Yoshi's (one of our cockatiels) cage. Practically gave the poor thing birdie cardiac arrest. So, the cage is now all bent to hell, the closet door has a gouge in it, and one of the metal dowels is bent from the fall. And Yoshi might be permanently brain damaged - who knows.
  
• The couch. It doesn't fit. So it's wedged in our hallway, waiting for someone to buy it. It has little tears in it from rubbing against the walls and ceiling.
  
• Matt practically burned down our old apartment. He lit a match, and it cracked in half. The half that was falling to the floor ignited halfway down. When it hit the carpet, of course, it started on fire. When the manager came in to do our moving out walk though, she exclaimed, "What's that smell?!" "Oh, nothing ... just a match."
  
• Broken not one, but two lamps. They still work - they just need to be fixed.
• Our silverware drawer is ready to rip off. Not our fault, but still ...

As I said to Matt tonight, "I've NEVER had so many problems with an apartment before. And I've lived in A LOT of places!" And then I walked off, probably mumbling something about how things were better when Ike was in office and womens' places were best in the kitchen (IT'S A JOKE PEOPLE - you tell me to stay in the kitchen and I'll kick your ass first. And then hit you with a frying pan.).

Lately, our life is like a goddamn Laurel and Hardy sketch. Good thing we don't keep pie in the house.

*Cue slapstick music*

Three times, THREE SEPARATE TIMES, I've walked into the wrong apartment. And then Matt confessed that he did the same thing. You'd think we'd walk into different apartments, just to mix things up. Oh, no. We've walked into the same goddamn apartment every time. (This is the part where Charlie Chapman looks impishly into the camera.)

Why doesn't this guy lock his damn door? Honestly.