I’ve spent the past couple of weeks pursuing the elusive “affordable, yet not a total shit-hole” apartment in San Francisco, and as Jesus once said: It is finished. I am soon to be living with people I found on Craigslist who may or may not be cannibals—I don’t care. My room is beautiful: high ceilings and big windows. My roommates can go ahead and feast on the appendages of the naked people they keep chained in their closets; as long as I can sleep through the screaming, what they do in the privacy of their bedrooms doesn’t concern me.
Just to give you an idea of my new hood, here’s a picture of some houses that are a five second walk from where I’ll be living:
For the past nine months I’ve inhabited a mint green cube of a building in the East Bay. Picture a classic suburban California apartment complex with a mini van-sized pool in the courtyard and fake flowers in ceramic pots by the door. Not my aesthetic jam. I’m ready for funky, dusty, moldy Victorian townhouse living in San Francisco proper.
Another reason that I’m relieved to be done with the apartment hunt is that trying to explain who you are to complete strangers in under half an hour is both tiring and impossible. Luckily, I am skilled in rapidly establishing inappropriate levels of intimacy with random people. But, I still don’t have a satisfactory answer to the question “What’s your favorite book?”
 The Road: still messing with my psyche three weeks post-read. Now that’s what a book should do: freak the fucking shit out of you!