A college age kid answers his cell phone:
"Hello? . . . Sup, how was Vegas?"
"Oh yeah? So you fucked em, right?"
"Well, then you at least gave em a blowjob."
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In other news, I've been apartment hunting. And hunting and hunting and hunting. I gave my landlord notice, so I have to be out by the end of the month, but finding a place has been harder than I thought. I wanted to live in Ballard because it's a nice area and I thought it would be cheaper, and so many awesome ladies, d-land and otherwise, live over there. But finding a non-ugly, affordable, pet-friendly place is a chore, my friend--especially in Ballard, which is somewhat more family-oriented. So Capitol Hill may be stuck with me yet.
Mrs. Roboto even rode all over Ballard with me in my car on Friday afternoon, helping me look for rentals. It was really hot that day, and I felt bad about the fact that my car has no air conditioning. Then suddenly, after about two hours in the car, I said, "Do you smell something? I mean, like something died?" Mrs. R (very polite): "Well . . . there is a smell . . . "
In the building where I live now, we have assigned parking. And a week or so ago, a rat (not a mouse, a big fat freaking rat) perished in my parking spot. I had been in denial about the whole thing, just parking at the other end of my parallel space and trying to ignore the whole thing, but apparently the smell of the rat had seeped into my car anyway.
The moral of this story is, Mrs. R. is a candidate for sainthood and my car smells like roadkill. Yay! Don't you want to be my friend now?
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I think I have maybe solved the apartment problem, but I don't want to get too excited about it yet for fear of jinxing it. Say a little prayer to the Rental Gods for me. Danke.
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