That's it. I'm out. After this month, no more roommates. No more dogs. No more cats. No more piles of dirty dishes in the sink and clothes left in the dryer and bad decor and self-righteous attitudes and notes found taped to my bedroom door imploring - commanding! - that I clean the bathroom by such and such a day, or else!
April 1 will be my first night spent in my new apartment, a tiny little place just big enough for me and my meager belongings. A space in which I can cook fabulous meals (even if just for one), write that book I've always wanted to write and learn how to play my electric guitar, one I bought six months ago in an attempt to cheer myself while snared in the clutches of a sociopathic former boss.
My new apartment is tiny but cute. It's a little efficiency built on the back of a house close to downtown and within walking distance of my favorite coffee shop, one that sits near a lake infested with a certain type of duck people see as more of a parasite than a feathered creature drawn to water. This place marginally reminds me of an apartment I rented long ago. Unlike that place, though, this one has a front door that shuts AND locks, central heat and air and a proper kitchen instead of a strip of space separating the living area from the sleeping area that just happens to contain a stove and sink. And in this place, my refrigerator (a new one!) is in the kitchen where it belongs - not in the living room.
My first night there will be joyous. I think I'll crank up some Amon Tobin, cook a lovely dinner in my underwear, walk around naked, watch a little "Daily Show" then noisily masturbate before I drift off to sleep. What more could a girl want? Ah, the good life in amerikkka.