In The Toilet

My apartment search is in the toilet. The one percent of my brain containing my common sense says this is for the best. I’m better staying in the low rent dump next to the baboon, because it beats homelessness in a bad economy. However it’s the ninety-nine percent remainder of my brain that’s urging me to continue the search. The last time I looked for an apartment, it was easy. This time it is impossible. There has to be a reason why. Limped to work. Missed M2 bus that failed to stop at bus stop, but stopped 2 blocks later, not at bus stop. Driver: “This isn’t a stop.” Me: “You didn’t stop at the stop, and you’re letting off passengers here.” She slammed the door in my face, and bus sped off. Message on voice mail, which is closest you ever get to speaking to someone at MTA: “I just want to let you know that the M2 driver failed to stop at 50th and 5th Avenue, but stopped and illegally let out passengers 2 blocks later. The nasty driver saw me limping to the correct stop, but sped by. When I tried to board the bus after people got out, she refused, and shut the door in my face. I know you won’t take any disciplinary measures. But I was hoping that maybe you can give this message to the driver: the limping woman you refused to pick up today called to say ‘go screw yourself’.” Went to Starbucks. Nobody there. No line. They still made the wrong drink, and I waited 20 minutes. “Of course I understand how iced café Americano sounds like iced peppermint mocha. How many shots did I order? Are you kidding?”