Here’s a little song I wrote…

So it’s come to this, has it?

I don’t know why I phrased that so ominously. I’m elated. Look, I may be a sincere person, but I’m rarely if ever sentimental. Today is my last day of daily writing. So it goes. This writing project was been a necessary part of my life for many years. Having a creative outlet during the tough times helped immeasurably. I’m not gonna begin to pretend I always wanted to write. Maybe I actually wanted to write five times per year. The other 360 times were under my own duress. Then multiply that by seven. I decided that I would write every single day irrespective of what I had going on. If I was tired, it was 3am, and my organs were seeping out of my skin from fatigue? Too bad. Writing still needed to happen. This also meant that most days, I really didn’t feel like it, but forced myself. I might not be sentimental, but I can be quite disciplined if I tell myself I have no other option. I’m not kind when it comes to diligence, I just decide that I don’t have a choice and suffer through it.

The best part, is that I essentially did my summation entry yesterday, so today I can be back on my usual brand o’ bullshit. I dunno. My brain is a little loopy at the moment, which feels fitting. We’re moving house. I’m surrounded by detritus, which is an unkind way to refer to our belongings. To be fair, on a long enough timeline we’re all detritus. I’ve been throwing things away all day, which is one of my favourite things to do. There’s little I love more than shedding the past and moving on. I don’t really like owning stuff. I hate that I gradually accumulate more things. Fortunately, my trash can be another man’s trash. Or woman. Or anyone along the gender spectrum. Gender is a construct, and wholly irrelevant when we’re talking about things I may have cared about at some stage. Then again, at some stage gender was a thing I cared about. Plus ça change, eh?

Mostly, it’ll be weird for my parents. Seeing an entry posted every day is the only way they know I’m still living. I think my girlfriend reads too? I never really accrued much of an audience, but that also wasn’t the point. The point was to have somewhere to jot down thoughts, work on improving as a writer, and finally figure out some kind of stance on the Oxford Comma. Obviously, I’m pro. I didn’t even write the sentence that way on purpose, it just happened.

I’m also thrilled that the summation of this project lined up with me getting my shit together. I’m in a great place. My girlfriend and I are about to move into an all new apartment together. I’m leaving the only Toronto home I’ve ever had. I have an expansive circle of friends I adore. I’m stoked to be working in Described Video. It’s challenging, creative, and ever evolving. I’ve done a lot of work on my mental and physical health over the years, and they’re both paying dividends. Moreover, I’ve learned how better to process, accept, and move forwards. I’ll struggle again, and again, and life will be riding those waves. It’s what we do, no?

I remember going out for dinner with my mum once. We used to do that kind of thing. Go out to the movies, get dinner. We were homies. We went for a fancy dégustation, because we both share a love of food. It was a fantastic meal, and a lovely evening. At one point I levelled with her. “Mum, you need to understand that I’m never going to be truly happy. I know that there’ll always be something holding me back, and that’s okay. I’ve made my peace with it, and I think it would be healthy for you to stop having that expectation.” It was a horrible thing to say. I don’t think she took it well, but I meant every word of it.

Sorry mum. I lied.

Bless this stress

What’s a stupid thing that stresses you out? I’ll start.

I hate ordering takeout. As someone who’s 500% a maximiser, not a satisficer, I feel like I need to be gaming the system. I strive to get meals that make everyone as happy as possible, and anything less is a failure. I worry about finding a place that does free delivery and hitting those targets. I try to get the best coverage of meals that gives enough variety, but it takes me so long to choose that sometimes without exaggeration it’s 90 minutes before I’m ready to submit my order. I never know if I’m ordering enough, too much, and whether I’ve gotten sufficient side dishes (rice for curries) etc. After six years in Canada, I’m still shocked every time tax isn’t included in the initial price, and feel tense seeing the cost increase so dramatically. I also still don’t understand the intricacies of tipping, and this is at its worst when someone shows up at my door and I’m not sure how much I’m supposed to give them. Then after all that, if I’m ordering in a big group, I worry that people won’t pay me back and I hate asking people after the fact, even though I’m 100% sure that it wasn’t intentional.

Being late. Like, at all. I hate it. If I’m gonna be five minutes late, I instinctively feel like this is behaviour that requires a warning message. Something in the vein of “hey, I’m en route but I’m gonna be 5-10 minutes late”. In these scenarios I’m usually two or three minutes late, but I still feel guilty as sin. It’s irrational, but there’s something about giving someone my word that I would be somewhere at a specific time, then failing, that corrodes my insides. It’s like I’ve reneged on a social contract and betrayed them. If *they’re* late? Less than zero worries. If they turn up 25 minutes past the time they said? Hey, it’s 2020, I have a computer in my pocket and more ways to entertain myself than God intended. Why in the everloving fuck would I care that they’re not exactly where I expected when I expected? Who am I? Punctual Pilate? But if I’m seven minutes late, don’t worry about me turning up. I’ll just perform ritual seppuku on the TTC. Or at least, I would if I wasn’t worried about creating work for the already under-appreciated cleaning staff.

Group video chats. I would rather send individual messages in bottles to my family back in NZ than do one group chat. Conversational rules don’t exist, group chats are lawless, godless voids. Nobody knows when to speak. It’s too hard to take turns, because lag is as much of a constant as disappointment. There will always be video or sound issues from one family member that take most of the chat time to resolve. It’s so much harder to take visual or audio cues, which means trampling over one another like crabs in a bucket. There’s no making glib comments, because they’ll require excessive explanation that a) they did not deserve and b) ruins the point of the glibness in the first place. If I had the choice between never hearing from family again or only doing group chats, I’d immediately adjust to life as an orphan.

Wow, I sure feel better getting all that off my chest.

Commutually exclusive

Well that escalated quickly.

It’s 5pm, I just left Union Station on the TTC. The seats are sparsely filled. Riders have left large gaps between them and their fellow patrons. It’s quiet, and folks have their heads down on their phones. On any other day this train would be rammed full. My head would be all the way up someone’s armpit. Maybe folks would be arguing whether a tiny bag deserved its own seat. I’ve never seen a full blown brawl erupt on the train, but it wouldn’t come as a surprise. Seeing the immense drop in ridership is… strangely comforting, actually. It means people are taking COVID concerns with necessary gravity. Folks should be staying home, and limiting their proximity to others as best they can. The office was quiet for a Monday, and you can bet your arse I took advantage of the reduced occupancy to get in and swipe a bunch more bananas from the Monday fruit basket.

I won’t have to DV Big Brother Canada this week, but I wonder. Do the contestants know? They have no internet access, and very limited connections to the outside world. I can’t imagine the producers would tell them, what purpose would that serve? Oddly enough, it’s probably one of the safest environments right now with all this madness going on. Please don’t give me points for an original idea, this show already exists. Years back, Charlie Brooker (Black Mirror) made a limited series called Dead Set. It was a dark comedy set during a zombie apocalypse, where the only oblivious people in the world were those in the Big Brother house. They were still preoccupied with their petty rivalries as society crumbled around them. Funny show. It was on Netflix at some point, and I’d highly recommend it.

Going to the supermarket last night was trippy. So many empty shelves. Eggs? Gone. Toilet paper? Are you kidding? Name brand cottage cheese? No way in Hell. The frozen veggies were all out. The meat section was ravaged. Sale bins devoid of product. Long lines at checkouts. There’s a peculiar stillness in the streets. Outwardly everyone looks fine, but there are a ton more masks around. It’s placid and calm, but with a hint of menace. It’d probably be rather lovely if not for the pervasive viral pandemic. Fun is cancelled. Or postponed. I hope eggs aren’t postponed for too long. Plus I shit heaps. I’m gonna need TP soon enough.

Weird times. It’s even stranger that my girlfriend and I are a week or so away from a move. We need to paint, pack and get our shit over there. We’d planned on getting a hand from friends, which seems irresponsible with social isolation being everyone’s M.O. Everything is 12 times more complicated, which means approximately 17 times the stress. Don’t check my math. I’m sure if we just keep breathing, keep our heads down and wits about us, well emerge unscathed. Goddamn do I ever not want a mandatory two week holiday right now. I have to pay our new exorbitant rent.

Then again, with all my holidays getting cancelled, maybe I can afford it.

Poulet together man

I spite bought a raw chicken, so today we’re on the mommy blog recipe train.

It’s a pretty neat fit for my writing style. I’m constantly waffling before getting to the meat of a subject, so eventually we’ll find our way to a cooked chicken. I guess it’s worth answering the question first, why did I spite purchase meat? I hung out with my friend the other day, we got wrapped up in a conversation and forgot to eat. For hours. I think I arrived around 5pm and left before 10pm. I usually eat every 2-3 hours, so that’s a long time to go without sustenance. I was tired and hungry by the time I got to the supermarket, and a rotisserie chicken sounded like just the ticket. I walked towards the rotisserie station (is there a purpose suited word for a specific rotisserie shelf? You never know with English) and there was some guy scoping out the two chickens remaining. I stood a few metres off to let him choose, I figured it rude not to. A family pushed their cart nearby. The mother walked right up to the rotisserie station (it’s canon now) and waited for the guy to choose, then took the other one. I’m sure there’s a lesson here about being assertive, but I learned nothing. There was nothing else at that supermarket I wanted, so I went to ANOTHER supermarket and bought a raw chicken for $7.50. I sure showed them.

I’ve thought about doing an instant pot entire chicken before. I wondered if it would be more cost effective than buying haphazard rotisserie chickens from their stations [shoehorning it a bit too much -Ed]. I’m also fascinated by the idea of finding meals I can almost just drop in the pot and turn it on, then come back to dinner. I was tempted to cook a chicken at 10pm to really stick it to those chicken stealing suckers, but I didn’t have a lemon in the house and couldn’t be bothered leaving again. Instead I made it my sole goal for the next day.

It’s pretty quick to make, but I feel like I want to do a sidebar on recipe prep time. Why are prep times never truly reflective of the reality? So many recipes include steps as part of their recipes to make it seem like theirs is much easier or faster. Ingredient lists are like:

1 cup of egg whites
2 carrots, chopped
3 large potatoes, cubed

Meanwhile, those things all take time. Chopping the carrots maybe takes a minute, ditto for the potatoes. Egg whites need to be separated from the yolks. If you have a big list of spices, you need to make sure they’re readily available and measured out. All of these things aren’t readily prepared (unless you’ve got a great and efficient system going. In that case, let’s talk), and add to the overall prep time. While the recipe I went off listed something like ten minutes’ prep, it was more accurately around 30-40 minutes. I’m not saying they’re wrong, I’m saying they’re wilfully misleading. Anyway, is it time to get to a vague recipe?

The prep was actually pretty simple. I’m gonna say prep time 30-40 minutes if you haven’t got all your spices, etc, all set. You put various spices into a dry rub. Something like:

2tsp kosher salt
1tsp ground pepper
1tsp garlic powder
1tsp onion powder
1tsp paprika
1tsp oregano
1tsp thyme

Step 1: Mix dry rub in a small bowl.
Step 2: Pat the chicken dry. Remove any excess innards (giblets and what have you) from the cavity and pat that dry.
Step 3: Rub the spice mix into the chicken. Get it all up in that cavity too.
Step 3: Cut a lemon in half and shove it into the cavity.
Step 4: Turn your Instant Pot to sautée. Wait until it’s hot, add coconut oil (or canola, I just don’t like canola) then sear the breast side of the chicken for 4-5 mins. Turn it over and sear the bottom.
Step 5: Take the chicken out of the pot. Pour in 1 cup of chicken stock. Put the trivet in and place the chicken breast side up on top of the trivet.
Step 6: Turn the instant pot to manual, high pressure, for 22-28 minutes (depending on the weight of the chicken. Mine was 3.7lbs and 24 minutes was perfect).
Step 7: When it finishes, let it natural release for 20 minutes, then serve.

Juicy and tender, delicious chicken. Would I ultimately just buy a rotisserie chicken instead next time? Probably. If you’re looking at $7.50 vs $11 and have the time though? It’s pretty easy altogether. If you wanted it to be a mainstay, you could just make a big jar of the dry rub and have it ready to go, cutting the prep time down exponentially. Plus, all those bones can go straight into your freezer bone bag and become broth.

The perfect crime…

Goddamn ACMElennials

I think I got caught by a Wile-E Coyote trap.

Lately on my days off I’ve been going with a friend to his gym. It’s closer to home than mine are, and it’s nice to share the experience. We don’t work out together, but we generally do a little stretching, hop on a cardio machine, then do separate exercises and leave together. It’s been handy as an accountability tactic, which means a bunch to me. There are always days I really don’t want to be active, but being accountable to someone else helps me get out the door. I was walking to the gym when the successful hoodwink took place.

People here in Toronto throw out stuff all the time. They’ll put it out by the sidewalk. The rules generally are that you don’t take objects with fabric as a bedbugs avoidance tactic. Often though, people are ridding themselves of superfluous belongings. Over the years I’ve gotten wooden shelves, bathroom drawers, board games and a cast iron pan I nursed back to health. As I was walking to my friend’s gym today, I noticed a bong sitting on the side of the road. I thought that was bloody weird, brazen and almost endearing. I did not take the bong. I don’t often smoke from bongs, and I have no desire to make it a part of my home habits. If I did, I’m certain I’d spring the $20-$40 (I’m a square, I have no idea what a bong costs) to buy my own. Frankly, the only Bong I care about is the dude who directed Parasite. However, I stopped to look. There wasn’t just a bong. There was a pile of books, a pair of leather pants and some gumboots. Sitting in the middle of all this was a solitary can of tuna. My interest was piqued. It was spicy Thai chilli flavour, which is not my favourite. My girlfriend likes it though, and I’d eat a can if I didn’t have any yellowfin olive oil left.

I picked up the can and had a closer look. Everything seemed fine. I tested the foil seal, it was entirely intact. There were no puncture marks over the foil, all the edges were secure. I turned the can over in my hand, running my fingers along each side. I checked for any marks, dents, etc. The can was as fresh as the day it was factory sealed. The expiry was September 2020, loads of time. It all appeared too good to be true, so I did what any youngster who ascended to adulthood post Global Financial Crisis would do and I took it. Cans of tuna don’t grow on trees, y’know?

I know it sounds exactly like I’d accidentally knock a stick and have an oversized cardboard box trap me, but it didn’t happen. No anvils fell from clifftops. I saw zero sign of bombs or rocket powered rollerskates. I didn’t walk into a brick wall painted like a tunnel, nor did I get crushed by a train. I would have expected at minimum to be caught in a bear trap, but zilch occurred. The can is sitting on my kitchen table, and I’m giving it time on its own before integrating it in with the rest of my cupboard full of cans. Who knows? Maybe it’s filled with TNT or snakes. I bet this is how I get COVID-19. Nothing’s happened yet, but my eyes are peeled.

I can roadrun, but I can’t hide.

Lion tamer is right out

Jobs that I would want:

  • Doing evil laughs on command.
  • Patting Highland cattle for hours on end.
  • Trying out adult sized playgrounds and obstacle courses to assess funability.
  • Radio call in show of most any variety.
  • Dating show reality TV contestant.
  • Meal taster for an aristocrat.
  • Years ago at a party, some dude told me that Katy Perry had a professional nipple tweaker for her music videos. I want to do that. It doesn’t have to be Katy Perry. I could be most anyone’s professional nipple tweaker, I just want to be able to tell people that I hold the position of professional nipple tweaker.
  • One of the knights at Medieval Times, if the pay was good.
  • Professional shit stirrer.
  • A mascot in Japan.
  • A paid wedding guest.
  • Friend to monkeys.
  • A tour guide to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.
  • Pokémon consultant.
  • Hat model.
  • Taste tester for cheese.
  • Smooshing dough in my hands. No baking, just the smooshing part.
  • Lying on beds to assess comfort.
  • Spokesperson for Paddington.
  • Pimple Popper.
  • Ninja Turtle.
  • One of those old timey strongmen complete with moustache and black wrestling singlet.
  • Panel host.
  • Quality Tester at a weed edibles factory.
  • Snow sculptor.
  • Eccentric columnist.
  • Raccoon (I think I’d have a flair for it).
  • Weather presenter.
  • Pie contest judge.
  • Slow clap starter.

But I do like my job too.

Talkin’ ’bout my Gem-eration

I just came back from brunch with a buddy.

Do I talk about The Gem around here enough? I mention it frequently, but should I do it more often? Goddamn I love this place. Solid, affordable menu items and an ever evolving specials board. Great music on the turntable. A gentle, meandering atmosphere. Coffee on hand at all times. It’s a Sunday morning oasis, and an ever-treasured part of my weekly ritual. The place isn’t perfect, and that’s what makes it ideal. Par example, today I ordered the hot chicken sandwich from the specials board. A piece of toast, draped with a generous portion of chicken strips (non-breaded) covered in gravy. Home fries were topped with obviously pre-frozen veggies (corn, green beans, peas), flanked by a side salad and dressing. Absolutely bizarre, but tasty and filling. My mate and I ordered Caesars and had a good ol’ gab. Wonderful way to spend Sunday afternoon.

I had this thought the other day, about how neat it’d be to fill the place. Have the tables all packed out with friends, give the bar a solid day of money-making. We could all hang out together, grab some drinks and run the kitchen through its paces. With a take-over of the establishment, we wouldn’t be so worried about wait times. We could have a rad Sunday afternoon party, with everyone able to get in some fun without ruining Monday morning. We could all be home by 7pm or so, ready for an early night. Doesn’t that sound like a fucking riot?

My friend has been going through a period of instability that feels all too resonant. It seems like many of my close friends are undergoing a metamorphosis, or recalibration of sorts. So many of us have been dissatisfied with where we’re ended up. Maybe disillusioned about who we thought we’d be by our early to mid-30s. Commonly, we’ve been at crossroads, having evolved or matured in our values. Passions and interests changed to reflect how the world has shaped us. Friends are quitting their jobs, losing security and stability they once had. They’ve been branching out in work and hobbies, making big and different life decisions. Coming to terms with where they are and its proximity to where they’d like to be.

It’s hard living in a 24 hour news cycle, where it feels like pressure surrounds us. Where the world appears to be coming apart at its edges, and we’re deciding what matters to us. What callings speak to us, and how to realign our efforts with societal changes we want to see. How to support ourselves and those close to us when the pendulum appears to be swinging away from the vulnerable. Where to place our intentions and care, and how we can get out what we’re putting in to life. I don’t know that a 30s sea change is a modern convention, but it does seem to be happening a ton with my peers lately.

And we’ve got The Gem if we want to talk about it.

Call me when they finally come up with a hiTaki Magic Wand

I have no plans as of yet tonight. However, there is a bag of Takis in the kitchen.

Takis are incredible. Being a rolled chip, the taste per bite is astronomical. While of course, their “fuego” meter is unfortunately under par, they’re a mass marketed chip, and the market can only handle so much heat. I wholeheartedly recommend the hot chilli and lime flavour. It’s also remarkable how heavy the bag is. They’re substantially weighty, and deliver a top tier crunch. Takis, just roll with it.

This post is not sponsored by Takis, but I’m hedging my bets. If they happen to feel like tossing me a few dubloons, I won’t say no.

I was DVing some cop show today. Not a buddy cop show, but a show like COPS. It’s kinda weird that the show was released as it was. Like, it didn’t make these cops look good. It took a peculiarly short amount of time for them to resort to violence. They showed up at a gas station and some girl was screaming in her car. “He hit me, he hit me” she shouted. She got out of her car and the cops followed. They approached some black guy immediately. The girl was screaming “it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him”, but regardless, the cops grabbed the dude, pulled his arms behind his back and shoved him against a wall. He was nobody, just an innocent bystander. Totally innocent, didn’t struggle whatsoever, yet their first port of call was making sure he was uncomfortable. One cop kept him detained against this wall for the entire encounter. They then cuffed the girl. She pointed at some dude, he had blood streaming from his eye and neck. “That’s the guy, that’s the guy” the girl screamed. The guy was like “what the hell dudes? The girl you’re talking to just attacked me with a knife. There was just this knife sitting on the ground. The cops were like “is this your knife?” and she was like “well, yeah, duh”. ‘Murca.

In another case, some drunk dude had crashed into a fence. He was sitting atop the fence saying “woah guys, I’m really drunk but please don’t hurt me”. The guy came down and rested an arm on the fence. He talked back, so a cop grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, punched him in the side of the head, pushed him to the ground, punched him again then got him into a headlock. Fucking Jesus, dudes. It was brutal. Almost every clip involved them beating or otherwise hurting their suspects, and this was treated with almost a levity. Back in New Zealand, the most infamous clip from our cop show Police Ten Seven involved a cop dispensing helpful life advice.

If one were to eat Takis, blowing on them would be futile and unnecessary, no matter how hot they were. Just sayin’.

Y’know, I still have Takis in my kitchen, which seems a waste when I have an empty belly.

My night begins now.

Maybe it’s not Maybelline for once

Today has had a weird energy.

I don’t know how to qualify that. It’s been busy, but not stressful. When I got off at St George station for my usual transit swap, there were throngs of people. Train derailment. I stepped off the train, looked around, then stepped back on. I got off at Yonge, walked up the stairs and saw a solid mass of humans. I turned around at the top of the stairs, and walked back to the still waiting train. I finally got off at Sherborne and reminisced at how I used to travel that way every single day. Despite delays, I was two minutes late. Just the right amount of shabby. Wait, when does shabby become too shabby anyway?

My workday was stuffed entirely, but it was sorta fun? Perhaps that’s what happens when you like your job? All I know is that I kicked ass, took names, and lived to tell the tale. I had three shows due on air tonight. That’s a lot. Everything was running late and I had to pivot. I started a show that wasn’t urgent. Twenty minutes in, the first urgent show arrived. I jumped from my first session to this new one. Half an hour in, the next show arrived. It was on air an hour earlier than the other one, which made it more urgent than urgent. I switched sessions again. I finished up in record time, then went back to the urgent one. I stayed all of half an hour late, but didn’t mind. I had a sense of accomplishment warming my belly. Nay, pride.

Wait, does Gatorade still exist? A girl across from me on the train has a Gatorade insignia on her sweatshirt. Do people like Gatorade? As far as I knew, it was Powerade’s socially awkward cousin. Still better than Lucozade, whose only relevance was its Lara Croft based advertising. Did anyone enjoy Lucozade? Or Gatorade for that matter? What elements of gators did Gatorade incorporate? I tell you what, I ain’t seeing Gatorade later, but if I see it again it’ll be only too soon. Wait, is “gato” a meaningful prefix? It means “cat” in Spanish, Portuguese and Galician, according to Google. Why didn’t they call it Catorade? People fucking love cats. Missed opportunity, I tells ya.

Y’know, maybe it’s not the day. Maybe I just have a weird energy. Maybe Maybelline has nothing to do with it, and never has.

It’s a stretch, but maybe they want flexible tenants

UGH. What a GREAT WEEKEND. I just wanna talk about it.

BAM, I am. This morning (post 12pm. Don’t @ me) we went out for brunch at The Gem, my local. I knew I wanted to go for brunch, because when do I ever not want to go to The Gem for Sunday brunch? The food is cheap, tasty, it’s a kitchy atmosphere, and I can just zone out to enjoy the experience. My girlfriend and I got to chatting, and she decided to come along. We walked in the door and marvelled at the specials. Shrimp and cheese omelette? Some kind of breakfast platter with guacamole, rice & beans, tortillas, plantaines, eggs. Eggs benny (Gemmy) plus a pork chop. We were transfixed. I didn’t expect a lot before we arrived, even if I tend to nearly always get a special. While we were gawking, friends of ours walked in. Not friends we’re close with. I’ve chatted with them a bunch at parties and really like the couple. I hadn’t had the pleasure of hanging out with them in a more intimate environment to learn more about them as people. My girlfriend immediately asked them if they wanted to join us, and we all settled down at a table by the window. It was fucking charming. It was so nice to hang out with them in this benevolently unexpected scenario.

Yesterday we saw a rental and really liked it. Right at the tip of our price range, but significantly better than anything we’d seen so far. There were two separate, well-sized bedrooms with doors that closed. There was even a lounge with a door that closed that could’ve easily doubled as a bedroom. The kitchen wasn’t huge, but it had enough counter space and lots of cupboards. Most rooms had windows and I’m sure it’d be sunny during the day. It was a second floor spot, and had a MASSIVE balcony that stretched the entire width of the apartment. The bathroom had not only cute yellow patterned tiles all over, but a legit bath shower. We’ve been using this gross vertical shower for so long, that a real bath shower seems like an amazing luxury. Washer and dryer ON SITE. It’s 600m away from our current home, so we’d get to stay in this area we love so much, close to our friends, even closer to the subway. We kind of have our fingers crossed over this place, because we’re sure it’s gonna be snapped up by some fucking yuppies with loose funds coming out their buttholes. If not, it ticks all of our boxes so nicely, and would offer such a pleasurable quality of life.

I honestly didn’t intend to talk about the place so much, because we’re working on not getting our hopes up. The thing I did want to talk about was the fellow apartment hunter bringing a pilates DVD to the fucking showing. I DON’T GET IT. It’s not like she was being all flashy, going oh no, it looks like I dropped my PILATES DVD. She was just holding it, and I’m ever inquisitive, so I spotted what it was. Why did she have a pilates DVD? Can’t you find free pilates stuff all over the internet? Who still owns a DVD player? Why did she have a pilates DVD that day specifically? Why did she bring it to a viewing? Was she trying to assert dominance? In what scenario did she find herself stuck with this DVD, with no choice but to pick it up or purchase it before seeing a potential rental? Was virtue signalling? Did she think that this DVD made her more of a viable candidate? Fuck, DID IT MAKE HER A MORE VIABLE CANDIDATE? SHOULD WE HAVE OBTAINED A PILATES DVD BEFORE THE SCREENING TO INCREASE OUR CHANCES?

Shit. If we don’t get this place, you know I’m just gonna regret not having a pilates DVD until kingdom come.