(From June '06)
Yesterday I moved to midtown.
I have to say, I think this may have been my smartest move yet.
My old apartment was great, my roommate was great... but I now pay just over half to live in luxury what it cost me to live in a squalid rat hole of death.
True, my new apartment building is named something to the effect of "Everyone From Middle America Lives Here", and the average age seems to be 22, and Isabelle seems to have been lying about the attractive couple on the brink of divorce I was promised were living down the hall when I decided to move in...
but considering my east village apartments biggest claim to fame was housing a man who chopped up his dancer girlfriend, then used his tub to make her into soup, I think its a step in the right direction.
Actually, Ive moved at least every year since I was 17, and each move has been a step up.
When I graduated High School I moved from my parents house of obesity and self-loathing to Long Beach, CA.
I paid $700 a month to live in a giant apartment across from the beach in a phenomenal neighborhood. Unfortunately, my roommate, Angie, was a lesbian robo cop who fought drug dealers by day, and licked muff by night. I lived in constant fear of her, and within two months I split.
I moved to Venice, CA to live with my... Oh, whats in a name?
My "lover", or "friend", or "drug addict, married, scum ball boyfriend of death".
He had an awesome house right on the beach, and we'd spend our days rolling on E and confessing our undying love for each other or alternately, sobering up, crying and ignoring each other entirely.
One day I came home and he was curled up naked in my fresh laundry.
When that (AMAZINGLY) failed to work out, I moved to another apartment in Venice, before giving up entirely and moving home.
When I had sobered up enough to walk without collapsing (which took about 3 months), I moved in with a family friend in the east village.
That seemed like a wise choice, since she had a great, rent controlled apartment in the totally awesome east village. Sadly, she decided her room had "bad energy" which necessitated her to live in the living room and sleep on the couch.
About 6 months into the lease, she started banging this married dude whose wife had just had a baby... A baby which she kept pictures of on OUR fridge.
When that (AMAZINGLY) didnt work out, I came home to find her burning sage while chanting naked and walking around the apartment. She told me our apartment needed to be "cleansed". I said "try using a fucking vacuum, crazy!" and moved.
I lived in the NYU dorms for a year with a 400 pound pathological liar who ate whole pizzas and screwed strangers she met in AOL chat rooms while I slept feet away.
After that I lived with my then boyfriend in Midtown on the east side. We shared a ground floor studio. You had to stand in the bathroom to open the fridge. Everything I owned was covered in hair from his cat. I spent my days in class and my evenings desperately attempting to come up with reasons to continue living.
Then it was off to Williamsburg to live with two girls, one of whom was awesome, and the other of whom went totally Single White Female on me, cut her hair like mine, got a tattoo when I did, wore my clothes, slept in my bed, hit on everyone I dated, and then snapped and installed a stripper pole in my living room and turned to "massage with release" to make rent.
After that, it was the east village for a record 2 years and now midtown west... Beyond that... The future!
Interesting post script... the first chick I lived with in the east village ended up suing the married guy. He told her he's leave his wife and child for her. He didn't. She sued for breach of verbal contract.
