Rules for My Apartment
Welcome to the Mini Mansion. You will likely not want to stay too long. And you shouldn’t.
You can keep your shoes on or take them off. It’s no burden to me. I have no preference what you do one way or the other. Trust that I have many more urgent things to worry about. Many of them are fabricated and statistically improbable, but all my life people have been telling me anything is possible, so, yeah. Anyway. I sincerely do not care and will not furiously clean after you leave, if you keep your Doc Martens on. They say cleanliness is next to godliness and I neither believe in god nor have any aspirations to be compared to one. I’m a lot of things but am happy to report “megalomaniac” is not one of them.
Cleaning day is the day that the cleaning lady, Maria, is scheduled to come. I say scheduled because it is hit or miss and in her years catching glimpses into my private life, which is mostly an inside joke, she has shown up close to on time exactly zero times. It is like she operates within the same service windows as local cable repairmen. But I like to be kept guessing. Makes me feel alive. Know what I mean? So, cleaning day commences 10 minutes before the agreed-upon semi-ballpark of an arrival time and the sole purpose of this is to hide at least some of the mess because no one should really see the full breadth of how I habitually live.
What goes under the fridge belongs to the fridge. It possesses several cards/notes from my ex-girlfriend and an antipsychotic I dropped underneath it several years ago, at least two empty Zyn tins and a probably surprising-to-most amount of stale Cheez-Its. I’d move it to see what all has made its way back there but am scared a gaping maw to a portal of hell may be revealed. I acknowledge this doesn’t make sense, as if there was a hole in the floor under my fridge it would just lead to the next floor down. But many things in life, fear paramount among them, don’t make a lick of sense.
The condiment drawer inside the fridge—which has been repurposed from its intended use as a produce drawer because produce is perishable so I don’t need an entire drawer for it and every time I purchase produce I willingly forget about it until it is brown and slimy—is half art installation and half for pragmatic use. Malign me if you want for saving all my condiments but I think you’ll alter tack with a quickness if a delivery comes without any packets whatsoever even though you paid for two extra ranches. If you set yourself up for success you’ll be disappointed less.
If you throw something at the garbage can you must say “buckets” when you let it sail. It’s a rush, trust me. And how the Zyn tins got underneath the fridge.
Don’t ask questions about who the shrine is in homage to.
Ask as many questions as you like about my stuffed animals.
The replica to-scale Leg Lamp from A Christmas Story is year-round decor and not to be moved. I find it to be a solid conversation starter. But don’t you fucking dare ever ask me if it’s “fra-jeel-ay.” I will end you.
We always thank any of the Alexas with sincerity and feeling. Bezos might be listening. I wouldn’t put it past him.
When heading to the bathroom to have a wee, it is frowned upon if you do not at some point while in there bellow, “I’ve got a mangina!” or “Do you wanna go to a club where people wee on each other?” And if you don’t get those Old Gregg references sit down right now and I will queue up the clip.
If you are to get in my bed you’ve gotta say, “Aw, fuck yeah,” while exhaling when you settle onto the mattress for the night.
If you run into a dog you should ask some questions because I do not and never have had one while living on my own. Also, it is explicitly prohibited in my lease terms.
Oh, that TV is specifically and exclusively for streaming episodes of Buffy on repeat, ad infinitum. You can try to change the channel all you want, or turn it off. Neither is going to work. Not even if you unplug it. I don’t know man. I just live here.
The pile of clothing is not a lost and found but a conglomeration of clothing I have worn to a point I do not feel it is yet soiled enough for washing. Please do not move or sniff.
If the neighbor across the hall’s Chicago Tribunes pile up to three or more outside her door, it is pertinent to check on her even though each time I have done so in the past four years she has either been confirmed out of town by the doormen or vaguely annoyed that I have dropped by for a wellness update. “The fuck do I care if I’m already dead?” she said to me the one time. Good point. But I did find it pertinent to explain if that were the case then I didn’t want the stench from her bloated, decomposed corpse emanating into the hallway for days on end. One time I printed out a Life Alert promo and put it on top of her daily papers thinking that’d be funny, but then knocked to check on her because if she had met her demise in there it wouldn’t be a good joke at all and as previously covered she wouldn’t give a fuck one way or the other.
I mean, yeah, you can vape. Thanks for even asking. I don’t think I’ve been inside a building where people haven’t been vaping with wild abandon whether it’s permitted or not since prior to the pandemic.
Don’t stay too long. But never be a stranger.