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Not to be a jackass or anything, but I love our new house truly, deeply, madly. Let us enumerate the benefits: It is two blocks from the subway. It is three stories tall. It has the cutest kitchen. It has private security. It has 60% redone walls. It is lorded over by an Australian TV executive who formerly worked at Nick GAS. This lack of variation in sentence structure can stretch on ad-infinitum because really, our house is the very-very-very best house.
As a rule, we, as members of the American collegiate population, are highly mobile--much like dandelion seeds or Mongolians. This means we have few possessions, which is the reason (beyond mere passive-aggression) nobody wanted to take the master bedroom, which is the size of a helipad. I, proud owner of little more than a Toshiba laptop and a yurt, could never make such a room bear aesthetic fruit. The barrenness of the room would mirror the barrenness of my future. And really, what college student wants to be reminded of that?
Our friendly neighbors approached us soon after our lease signing and introduced themselves as Maya and Arturo. In addition to being impossibly attractive artists, they also throw parties every Friday (also: they're named Maya and Arturo). When Christmas comes I must remember to bake them a nice fruitcake. We can go caroling.
This is the part where I announce that our house is a Victorian, and looks like the one from The Amityville Horror. The fact that we're only paying $625 for it makes me wonder whether or not we'll end up mysteriously dying one-by-one. The third floor bedroom features a private bathroom with nothing more than an old tub in it. Assuming Michelle Pfiffer doesn't pop out of it and drag him screaming to hell first, Nick can use it to make moonshine.
Not to be a jackass or anything, but I love our new house truly, deeply, madly. Let us enumerate the benefits: It is two blocks from the subway. It is three stories tall. It has the cutest kitchen. It has private security. It has 60% redone walls. It is lorded over by an Australian TV executive who formerly worked at Nick GAS. This lack of variation in sentence structure can stretch on ad-infinitum because really, our house is the very-very-very best house.
As a rule, we, as members of the American collegiate population, are highly mobile--much like dandelion seeds or Mongolians. This means we have few possessions, which is the reason (beyond mere passive-aggression) nobody wanted to take the master bedroom, which is the size of a helipad. I, proud owner of little more than a Toshiba laptop and a yurt, could never make such a room bear aesthetic fruit. The barrenness of the room would mirror the barrenness of my future. And really, what college student wants to be reminded of that?
Our friendly neighbors approached us soon after our lease signing and introduced themselves as Maya and Arturo. In addition to being impossibly attractive artists, they also throw parties every Friday (also: they're named Maya and Arturo). When Christmas comes I must remember to bake them a nice fruitcake. We can go caroling.
This is the part where I announce that our house is a Victorian, and looks like the one from The Amityville Horror. The fact that we're only paying $625 for it makes me wonder whether or not we'll end up mysteriously dying one-by-one. The third floor bedroom features a private bathroom with nothing more than an old tub in it. Assuming Michelle Pfiffer doesn't pop out of it and drag him screaming to hell first, Nick can use it to make moonshine.
posted by Byron at 1:05 PM
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