Jennie Smash

I am waiting to hear about an apartment. It is a beautiful apartment, in which my bed would live in a separate room from my couch, which would live in a separate room from my stove. While sitting or sleeping, it would be purely impossible for me to view anything in my kitchen. This is like paradise to me.

Also, the street is so nice, I might vomit. When I saw it, all brownstones with little trees on the front stoop and wrought-iron railings running up the steps and bay windows and little doodads like fleur-de-lis or vines over the doorways, I thought, well, hell, this will be fun til the bouncer shows up. And indeed, people did look at me strangely while I was sitting on the stoop, waiting for the broker.

After I submitted all my paperwork, Smyres met up with me and I showed her the place from the street.

“You a-hole!” She said, and socked me in the arm. And then she chased me up the block a bit, menacing me with her umbrella.

On our way to dinner, we passed a church that wasn’t squished between two buildings and Smyres said, “If you get the place, you’ll have to go in there and thank the LORD for saving you from hobo poop.”

And when I got home, the hobo poop-masters, a.k.a. the management company, had left my apartment door wide open, after having shown someone my apartment, without letting me know they were going to be in there at all. Brooklyn can’t come soon enough.