Does anyone else remember the blood oath I made to find an apartment within two weeks of moving home from Williamsport? Somewhere out there is a document, signed in blood, legally obligating me to stop suckling at mommy’s teet and get out of this house. Well it’s been two months and counting, and I have yet to find an apartment capable of accommodating the wacky antics of myself and my future common-law homo husband Chuck. We’ve had some leads, but apparently the pitter-patter of weekend custody munchkins is too much for downstairs neighbors, let alone the inevitable flood of drinking and obnoxious shouting that I’ll be doing to make up for two months of lost time.
Our ideal living situation is a two bedroom townhouse with all utilities, a hot tub, a stripper neighbor who enjoy changing with her curtains open, binoculars, Kleenex, and lotion included. Appliances and laundry hookups are a plus. Any leads, my friends?
Living at home really isn’t all that bad. At some point my parents decided to accept the fact that their parenting responsibilities are finished and I decided to stop being a disrespectful crap sandwich, so we don’t conflict with one another all that often.
However, living in this house for two months has been the most mentally and physically draining period of my life. When I come home from work, I literally have nothing to do except more work for different clients. That in itself causes a problem, because I need to have the Internet to do my job. I have no Internet, no Netflix, no cell phone reception, no friends available to do anything, and no boards to smash. I keep getting questioned by coworkers about the cuts on my knuckles because I’ve literally been reduced to punching the molding around my door for fun. Perhaps I’ll take up knitting, but only so I’ve got the needles around to stab my eyes out one of these bored, lonely evenings.
I thought I wanted to live in the country, but I’m beginning to rethink that notion. What I need is a country retreat, where I can go to chop firewood, shoot guns, and otherwise wax masculine when my cable modem breaks.
