Attention, New York realtors:
I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I did not just walk here barefoot from Appalachia. I am not carrying a banjo. In no way am I developmentally disabled. I am from Boston. BOSTON. Which is a major city, jackass. Where you have to pay first, last, security and a fee in order to get a place to live. Where the streets are also dirty, and the people are also sometimes abrupt, just like where you live. I am not a rube.
The fact that I did not call you up and start screaming obscenities before even saying hello should not, in any way, cause you to think that I am a pushover. I am nice, you see. Until you fucking push me, in which case, you will all wish you were born oysters in Japan. Believe that shit.
If you will agree to stop showing me pictures of apartments that:
a) Do not exist.
b) Have been heavily photoshopped.
c) Are stills from a movie set.
Then I believe that we will get along great. However, if you do not behave yourselves, I will call:
a) Some sort of terribly official business office.
b) A politician of some kind.
c) Your mother.
Thank you, and best regards,
Jen Hubley, soon-to-be New Yorker