In my dull dark basement, writing pointlessly and endlessly, the amount of posting I have done today.

I am overly tired, having painted roughly 1,000 square feet of walls. Probably more like 1,500, now that I review my math. I carried a bunch of stuff up the stairs, my neighbor Gretchen helping, until I got winded and needed chill time because I’m never too good at that shit. Now I am scarfing down Union Picnic and Stewarts Root Beer, hoping to get my energy back. The physical drain of moving is seriously killing me. But, literally, my apartment will be the most ridiculous, pimped out place you could ever imagine. Primarily this is because my roommate is enjoying his very first apartment at the ripe age of 29, and has also insisted that every single item in our common living areas be brand new from Ikea or the Pottery Barn. It’s insane, the amount of money he has spent from the two couches and entertainment center to the 42 inch flat screen plasma tv. And of course new microwaves, a kitchen island new coffee tables, dining room tables and bla bla bla. He has also purchased photo-realistic wallpaper of a beach in Hawaii for our bathroom. Every day he excitedly tells me about something else he found, apparently perfect for our place. Today’s item was a giant palm tree at Ikea. It’s only $125, he exclaims, to my ever-present,” you go girl” response.

Wow. This is quite the luck, my pimping bachelor roommate. He hasn’t even moved in yet, which is the most insane part of it all. I believe his pad works in a similar manner as a mating call. He wants a girl, and he’s not afraid to look domestic and suave to do it.