I’m not homeless, bitches!
We’ve moved into our new apartment and so far, it’s fucking
awesome. There is so. much. space.
Keep in mind that my roommate and I had been living in a
glorified cardboard box for the past 2 years, so our concept of space has been
seriously warped. We had a cubicle-sized living room and our hallway had a
kitchen in it. Just the idea of having closets was luxurious. And guess what?
We have a lot of fucking closets now.
I’ve danced at least
twice to celebrate having a linen closet. Don’t even get me started on the
broom closet. (No one said I was cool.)
As with any move, there will be a whole slew of things to
get used to in the new building; the most notable adjustment will be the
pigeons. In case you were wondering,
spending your Saturday morning hungover, scraping pigeon shit off of a balcony using
a very potent bleach concoction is not
as sexy as you might think. In related
news: what the fuck are pigeons eating that causes them to shit so fucking
much?
It’s clear to us that the previous tenants never used the
balcony. They obviously neglected it all together, leaving the pigeons to host
whatever kind of shit party/feather plucking rave they desire. (Seriously,
there were feathers everywhere… and shards of metal. I’m pretty sure they were
building some sort of shit-bomb. We stomped on their dreams. You’re welcome,
world.) Soon, we’ll be putting up a net to keep the
diseased beasts away, but for now we’ve decided to spend our time yelling at
each one that lands on our balcony. (When I say ‘yelling’, I really mean “yell
until you realize they don’t give a shit how much you yell, so you decide to go
outside and start flailing your limbs around until they get nervous and move to
the edge of the balcony and then you start kicking at them until they move to
the balcony one unit over so they’re far enough so you can’t reach them, but
close enough to mock you with their douchey cooing.”)
Remember that time my roommate suggested we could take over the world with pigeons? This may be the first step, guys. Stay tuned.
In other apartment news, I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it,
but we’ve moved to the 24th floor. In case you haven’t been paying
attention, that’s fucking high up. I’m
pretty much on top of the world when I sleep.
Being so high up means I have a great vantage point. It’s
too bad I retired from my part-time sniper job, because I probably could have
gotten a lot of work done from home. (Nothing says ‘dream job’ like snipering
(that’s a word) in PJs and a housecoat, am I right, girls!?) Fortunately for me,
I’m fully equipped to entertain myself with the second best thing: people
watching with binoculars.
A little back story:
Before moving to Toronto, I lived alone in a
fifth floor apartment in Montreal.
While the view was measly in comparison to that of our latest home, it felt
incredibly high up after living in a partial basement, and I was very excited
by my newly acquired ability to spy on people. The next time he visited, my dad
came equipped with binoculars for my disposal. To say the least, those bitches
have gotten a lot of action over the years.
Before you say it, I’ll be the first to admit I’m a total
creep. I shamelessly watch people and spend a lot of time listening to other
people’s conversations. Naturally, people watching/stalking with binoculars
from the 24th floor is exhilarating to me. With endless amounts of targets in sight,
there’s a very real possibility that my sleeping pattern is about to get all
sorts of cray cray. Or I’ll get arrested. One of those.
Who knows, maybe I’ll catch a fellow creep binoculating* on me as
I binoculate on them.
Yep. How’s that for a sexy sentence to kick off the week?
You’re welcome.
*Binoculate/binoculating may or may not be real words.
