Moving

Yesterday I signed a lease for an apartment in New York City. The process leading to this was a complete pain in the ass, and I can only see more frustration in my future. However, moving to another state means I am moving out of my parents house. This is a good thing.

Some background info:

I went to college in Boston, MA where I majored in Drinking. After four forgettable years, I left Boston and went back home. I spent 12 months in Manchester, NH with Bob and Susan Clark. I had good times, I had bad. More importantly, I had the chance to think about my life choices. Perspective is key. Over the year, I worked in a few warehouses as an unskilled laborer. Unloading trucks, reloading trucks, standing next to trucks, and generally putting my college learning to good use. Most of these places are filled with middle aged guys working paycheck to paycheck. They often have no life plans, nor any professional or romantic prospects. I am not better than these people, I've just learned that life is short and you need to get out there and do shit.

The apartment:

New cabinets, plumbing, floors. I feel like a goddamn Rockefeller. But apparently the super, Rafael, installed all the plumbing and wiring while in a wild drunken stupor. For example, the hot water comes out of the faucet when you turn the cold knob, and vice-versa. Honest mistake. Unfortunately he did it to both sinks in the apartment. Either he doesn't know the difference between C and H, or he has a great sense of humor. I'll probably never find out, because I can't understand a fucking thing he says. There's an overall sloppiness to the handy work, but the apartment is clean and without any real damage. Kudos Rafael.

The neighborhood:

Flatbush in Brooklyn. Mostly Black and Hispanic. Ten minute walk to Prospect Park. Lots of greenery. Bedford Avenue, which runs alongside my bedroom, includes a bike lane where I can go to risk my life whenever I please.

The mission:
Get a job.