About a year ago, I made the grown-up decision to finally move out on my own and get my own place. By "made the decision" I mean "my best friend/roommate and his girlfriend moved in together."
By "get my own place" I mean "rent an unaffordable room that is, in fact, one room" and is therefore barely an apartment and is more like someone's childhood bedroom.
At any rate, after 28 years I decided it's time for this man(child) to be a big grown-up.
Which, it turns out, I'm not good at.
I'm that guy who forgets his keys two minutes after he puts them on the coffee table (we'll get back to that). My trips in the grocery store usually have the same checklist everytime: wine, cheese, apples, milk that I will not use and will presumably wait until the day after the expiration date to want to use, adult gummie vitamins. A few things about myself have presented themselves so aggressively that I'm now writing this just to remind myself that yes, Drew: this is who you are. Let's go through the list.
1. I do not get my mail. Ever. For no apparent reason.
Let me start with a rant: I fucking hate the mail. Like, real, actual mail. You know why? Because no one actually sends you letters anymore. But you know who sends me letters? Every catalog, ever. I'm fairly certain that a few guys at "the catalog headquarters", which I (naturally) assume exists, got drunk one night, threw a dart at a "who's life should we ruin" board and hit Andrew "Bullseye" Hoolhorst. And they decided to send this one lucky guy EVERY catalog ever created, ever. I get catalogs for like, dog sweaters. It is either the rational explanation I just presented above, or I have the worst online shopping habits ever (answer: the latter).
We also all know that the only thing of any use that comes in the mail anymore is the 20% off coupon from Bed Bath and Beyond. And if you've gotten your mail ever, than you are probably sitting on about 3,976 extra ones as well and don't need another.
Because of this, I refuse to get the mail. It will just become a pile of catalogs on the breakfast table I bought and will never eat breakfast at, as I did not buy "breakfast chairs". However, this has become problematic.
I started to receive the "fuck you" notes from the postman about a month into my shenanigans. You know those notes you get when you have a package delivered that you missed? The postman just started writing passive aggressive notes on mine. Here's a direct excerpt from one: "No more mail, you will get." So, for starters...my mailman is Yoda.
Clearly, though, he brought this to the attention of my landlord. Who called to ask if I was okay. Which, while endearing and sweet of her, I thought...seemed odd.
When I said, "Why yes, I'm doing great, rental company person, why do you ask?" she responded, "because you haven't picked up your mail in what the postman says is months, and that usually means someone died."
There is a lot to go over there. But wait: are there people who honestly die and MONTHS later, it's the mail that tips people off? Because that's aggressively depressing and hilarious all at once and I can't pick which one.
If you are reading this, landlord, I am alive. I promise. I just don't need any more catalogs.
2. My stove hasn't worked since I moved in, and I haven't called the landlord about it.
The best part about this one is that I didn't realize this until I had lived there for over two months. That means that it took two months for me to even consider cooking. That means that for two months, I either bought take-out or I microwaved food I had purchased and let cool next to the milk in my fridge that I don't use. I'm pretty sure normal people, after approximately one second of something that effects your quality of life (i.e. sustenance) would have called someone to fix the "food making machine." I decided that this just seemed like a lot of work, so I'd just empty my savings into burritos instead.
Two other facts here that don't merit entire sections: I have the burrito store on speed dial above people I know, and i'm fiscally irresponsible, just in general, so this isn't helping.
3. I have the memory of a goldfish and don't remember where I put things.
You have to be an unreal "idiot savant" level of talented to be able to lose things in a studio apartment. That's essentially like putting a spoon in a bowl of soup and then telling people that you can't find your spoon. However, i'm SO good at losing and forgetting things that I have locked myself out of my apartment three times during my tenancy. The best was the most recent span. When it happened twice in one week. On back to back nights.
The first night it happened, I ran out of the apartment, turned the lock inside the door (out of habit when I leave the apartment) (don't ever do this and just use the deadbolt) and ran down to my car to get something I had (wait for it) forgotten. Locksmith comes, bails me out of my problem for a "wait seriously, where do I go to locksmith school if this is what you're being paid to be a sketchy locksmith?" amount of money. This one proves to be a more worthwhile experience on night two of locking myself out.
Running out to meet someone for a dinner (notice that I am not cooking again in this story), I realized that I was without my keys, and realized I had definitely locked the door again. Here's the moment of panic, and not because I just locked myself out again...
Because there's no way in hell I'm calling back the locksmith from last night. That's like calling a one night stand and asking them to hang out again less than a day later.
So I call a second locksmith. When he asks if I can prove that I live there, I tell him that I realize I left my wallet in the apartment (shocking). He proceeds to take a really long time, and tells me that this lock is unpickable and that he'll need to charge me extra to drill the door.
We all know this is a lie. And we all know that in order to call him out on this, at this point I would have had to had said, "BULLSHIT, locksmith, a different locksmith picked this last night." And we all know that I'm not doing that.
So I actually, due to embarassment, allow him to drill a hole in my door and let me in. I will pay more to JUST not talk about what a locksmith slut I am.
When I get inside, I give him my driver's liscense to prove that I am the rightful tenant, which ironically has my previous address on it. So guess what I gave him: a copy of US Weekly with my address on it. Because I was too embarrassed to tell him I was seeing other locksmith's, yet not ashamed that I, in fact, subscribe to US Weekly.
I wish it had been a catalog.
Rocket Shoes Mixtape 36: It's Like A Catalog That Sells Things You Actually Want