meximick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- No Job. Still Employed. No Apartment. I've been using the same purple Papermate Flexigrip Ultra medium pen for the last month. I do not have another pen, but I am too lazy to ask anyone where I can get another pen. My purple pen is my anchor, my rock. And now, a haiku: Lonely purple pen Dance and bleed on worded sheets Me no get no job. And it's true! I was not rewarded with a new and better job thanks to all my past and current half-hearted work and lack of Machevellian ploys for power. The manager called me into her office and told me she wished it wasn't this way, but the decision was not entirely hers... blahblah... But on Monday, I was told my current job term was extended until the end of June. So at least I have a job. A boring, unsatisfying job at a boring company. Hey, woman in my work area, please stop fucking talking about fucking Jared from fucking Subway. Thank you. Looking for an apartment is a severe pain. I am concerned about my credit report, which will very probably be checked. I obtained a copy of mine last week, and I can't tell if it's just kind of bad or decent or horrible as the form is a maze of glyphs and codes and secret runes that must be held up to a full moon to be understood. Fuckers. Secondly is the looking for apartments thing, which is a time strain. Last night, Mike and I had an appointment to see a studio owned by our current landlord in Lincoln Square. Expecting to meet with him, we instead met with a muscled Russian man in a sweatsuit who constantly looked like he had just woken up, but was anxious to be somewhere else. Here's how a bit of our conversation went: me: "Ah. This place is nice. Do you know what's included with the rent? Heat and hot water?" Ivan: "They deed not tyell me." me: "Oh. Ok. Yeah, this is a nice place." The first thing I saw as we entered the apartment, walking through the dark, fetid hallway, up the warn, creaky stairs, was a pair of womens' shoes. I thought, "Ok, were looking at some girl's apartment." After looking about, and feigning interest, Mike looked at the photo of a girl on the tv, and said, "Wow, does she come with the place?" Haha! Ivan replied, "Theyt ees my ex-girlfreend. Watch eet." I can't begin to relate how much of a fucking damper that placed on the visit. We were in the Russian's apartment. I shot back with a, "Mike, you asshole!" But we left the apartment on uncertain terms. Things seemed ok as we walked outside, and chatted about other apartments and neighborhoods. The conversation was at times one-sided. He was hard to understand when he spoke quickly: Ivan: "You like aypartmeynt? Eef you loooking fordeeferentaypartmeyntthere eesdeeferentplaceIcoouldeskdavedasvedanya." Me: "Uh. Sure. Sounds great. Thanks." My mind did however flash to some sort of street struggle where we (or at least I) end up in the Russian's trunk, a deeply frustrated look crossing Ivan's face, as he wonders where he can dump a body so early in the evening. But it worked out, I guess... 11:31 a.m. - 2002-03-20 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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