Scum thy name is realtor
I had two appointments this week to look at two seperate apartments. Both are in (Uggh I feel like such a sell out) Williamsburg, two different realtors are showing me the places. One was for Thursday, and I’m all ready to go. I arrange to leave work early.
I’m all psyched thinking that this might be it, this might be my port after a long stormy trip. I’m going home, HOME! Don’t you people understand!!! I just want to go home! I want my 718 area code, and my zip code that begins with 112. I want 100 years of personal history back at my fingertips again. I want my edible non-franchise pizza, I want to hear the clacking of an elevated line, I want my real blue collar bars back, I want to cross the east river to get home, and easy access to rockaway in the summer.
I swear sometimes I just want to throttle someone whose there for “the scene.”
Sorry, you know how it is when you’re so close to something. Oh anyway, why williamsburg? I’ll be off of the L line which is easy to get to work, and the beach. I know more people there now than I do in my old south brooklyn haunts.
Well people I can stand for more than 10 minutes nowadays anyway. No wait… shit that drove me insane, 5 minutes.
One hour to go, and I get the call. Cancelled. Ok that’s annoying, she says she’ll check her schedule and call me back.
I had to call her back yesterday, and schedule for sunday.
Ok so determined not to have that twice in a row, I call realtor 2. I CONFIRM date, time, and address. Looks good, and I might even have company to check this one out. I’m having a shitty day at work and this is the ultimate test, if I feel relaxed when I walk in I know this the one to consider.
I get a call from some guy who I can barely understand. He tells me that the super is off to the bronx with the keys.
I’m fuming, and I reschedule for today (saturday). FUCK!
