Filed under: Life | Tags: Brain disorders, craigslist, Crazies, losing, New York
There is nothing worse then moving, unless you don’t have a place to move to. That’s the kicker right there. Unfortunately for me, I have been experiencing this “moving” process for about 9 months…I’m a little over it. My apartment share of choice? Craigslist. I think I should probably stop looking because it has clearly not been a fruitful experience for me. That and I’ve lived with one too many crazies in such a short amount of time. The trouble with crazies and craigslist is that you don’t find out exactly how crazy they are until two or three weeks in–Gotcha! I love it. Now, aside from the crazies, there’s also the soul-crushing, bitter disappointment of not getting the room at all. That one I know even better. In fact, just today I recieved an email (very rare to actually respond to a person you’re not giving the room to) from someone about my roommate status:
“Hey Norah, so nice to meet you the other night, thanks for coming by. I want you to know that we’ve decided on a roommate, and I don’t mean to make you feel bad but, you were second place! (And I’m not just saying that to everyone–too bad we don’t have two rooms to offer.) We really liked you a lot, and it was a tough decision–anyway, we think you’re a cool chick with a great sense of humor, and it’d be lovely to hang out with you again sometime, truly. ”
Seriously. Seriously. Second? Second?! I hate coming in second! There is nothing worse then losing and then find out you were “this” close to clinching it. When I read the “I don’t mean to make you feel bad but, you were second place! ” I wanted to reply: “If you didn’t want to make me feel bad, why tell me how close I was to getting the room? That’s sort of a douchey move on your part. Thank you for such an uplifting email:)” Of course, all I did was have a minor brain seizure and swear a streak of blue (to myself).
Ahhhh. I love looking for rooms. Thank you for the wonderful experiences craigslist. Thank you:)
There are two kinds of New Yorkers: born-and-bred (a rare breed indeed) and transplants (99% of New York). I’m a transplant and as a transplant I have been put through what you might refer to as “hazing.” I say this loosely because most hazing stops when the “Big Sisters/Brothers” have accepted you lovingly into their arms…or when Administration reads in the city paper that one of their students was found bound and gagged to their historic monument. I’m in limbo here, neither completely accepted by Big Brother New York, nor found duct-taped to the Statue of Liberty–yet. I have had my fair share of hazing though. Most transplants have experienced at least one in five situations below:
1. mugging/robbery (mugging requires a new set of underwear)
2. eviction (someone will ALWAYS screw you over)
3. getting hit by a cab (seriously, this happens more then you hear)
4. getting shot
5. infestation (cockroaches have no fear)
I must be the exception to simple hazing, because on this list, the only thing I have had yet to experience is number three (knock on wood). I have been robbed twice (the first time was my own stupidity, the second…my own stupidity), mugged three times (all in the village, all by crazies), evicted once, shot in the ass with a bebe gun (it broke skin, that counts), and infested my first day in the city with the meanest fucking cockroaches I’ve ever come across. You would think the hazing would stop, you would think I would be patted on the back, handed a nice choccy, and sent to bed. You would be thinking wrong. You see, unless you were born under the lucky sign of zeus and grew up in this concrete playground, you are not worthy of being a New Yorker–not until New York decides at least. 
Until then, I wait my turn and watch my back, there’s no telling when that yellow cab of death is going to knock me on my ass.
