some people may call us shallow but there are some of us who can only take so much when it comes to gettin' down in a craptacular apartment. and i've gotten down in some craptacular apartments. (i'll go on record and admit i've even had a craptacular apartment or two - but i rarely had sex in them. and i was depressed. very very depressed.)
a list of greatest hits:
C-, the financial analyst who lived in a studio in boystown with plastic lawn chairs instead of living room furniture mere inches away from a sagging twin bed and hot plate. he once chased me around his room with his pants around his knees but when i told him it wasn't working out i used his apartment, instead, as an excuse to get rid of him.
T-, a 30-something consultant who lived in a basement with stolen sugar packets, an old lava lamp and a couch that was clearly stolen from a dorm room.
B-, who lives/ed like he lives/ed in prison: one fork, one spoon, one cup, one towel and a mattress on the floor. his record collection, however, is/was stellar.
The Librarian, whose dilapidated connecticut shack was entirely the fault of his bossy, manipulative roommate who owned giant, shedding cats and her bertha-like brother who lived in the attic. not comfortable.
would love to hear of any domiciles that gave folks the heebie-jeebies when it came down to gettin' down.
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