And then, of course...
That's right. I will ride this metaphor like a motherfucking pony.
Brad and I no longer have an apartment. Despite my signing larger checks than I have ever written in my life over to the landlord and the real estate agent, we don't have an apartment. Oops. Weird. The landlords "gave it to another couple," the agent said in the message she left on my phone after getting my number from Brad, because she "lost it."
She had my application. She had my checks. She had my number. In. Her. Phone.
She called to say that, weird, the landlords were "assholes," and despite the fact that she argued for me and "my boyfriend," the landlords had already signed a lease with "another couple."
I'm either psychic or just used to my bad luck, because I knew something was going to happen. Either way, I'm cursed for sure. By the time I got home (and my neighbor with the realtor sister-in-law was already making shrill and urgent phone calls to every person in Greenpoint), Brad was considering how I could possibly dodge the cartoon-style cloud that hovers over my stupid head. Especially right around my birthday.
Any ideas? Brick dust? Chicken feet? Invite Fairuza Balk to bind my picture with some craft supplies? Anyone? Best curse breaking idea gets my heartfelt attempt and possible photo documentation, provided it doesn't involve any running naked under the moonlight. Or any naked at all.
Or, for that matter, running.