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How to Score an Apartment in 4 Easy Steps

May 18, 2009


Having worked for a property management company and rented a few places myself, experience tells me that your landlord will more than likely be male. So, obviously, being female is an advantage. Not only does it allow you to trick them by employing your feminine wiles, it also creates a fairly pleasant first impression. Men usually create boundaries with one another, but with women, they let their guard down. This is foolish on their part, but quite useful on ours. With their guard down, they’re more open to giving you an opportunity to rent from them. HOWEVER, don’t use your powers for evil, ladies. Be nice to the boys. It isn’t fair to prey on them and nobody likes a bitch.

2) Have a steady job.

No matter how cute you are, no landlord will rent to you if they don’t think you can pay up (unless they’re expecting a nice piece of ass to make up for it and, in that case, you tried too hard. BE CAREFUL.). Having a steady job will be the icing on the cake if you’ve already weaseled your way into their affection.

3) Dress up, have fun, and flirt a little.

Finding an apartment is A LOT like looking for a job. First impressions are everything. Your landlord is going to see YOU before he sees your application. You can never be overdressed. Of course, if you’re from Jersey, you might want to avoid apartment hunting altogether and just STAY IN JERSEY. Kthx. Flirting is fine as long as it’s HARMLESS. If you’re trying to rent a nice place, chances are your landlord doesn’t want to fuck you. So keep your eyelashes in check, don’t stand too close, and DON’T TOUCH HIM. This isn’t a date or a casting call. If you’re paying a man to live in a house, having sex with him makes you a bad businesswoman AND a bad hooker. You’ve just purchased yourself a pimp, my dear. Congratulations.


If you didn’t have the time (or skill) to make a pie, LIE. Men love women who bake and the prospect that a pie might be sent their way is MORE THAN ENOUGH to make them overlook your shitty credit score. If you think I’m kidding, try it.

In the end, you’ve got to play to your strengths (my strengths being high heels, harmless flirting, and pie). A landlord will rent to you if he or she wishes to. Sometimes, there are better applicants and that’s just something you’ve got to live with. As a female, it’s easy to get power hungry and become a predator. AT ALL COSTS AVOID THIS. Landlords appreciate tenants who are genuine, pay their rent on time, and are pleasant to interact with. Be approachable, be yourself, and be honest. If you have shitty credit, admit it. If you’re going to be late on rent, LET THEM KNOW. Honesty really IS the best policy. I’ve never had trouble with a landlord I was honest with, even when he was getting the bum end of the deal.

Last year, I signed a 1-year lease on the loveliest apartment I have ever seen. This morning, my sister and I scored our dream house. Why? Because these are my rules and I follow them.


Islamic Heaven: Invitation Only

April 22, 2009

“Will you be my honey up there?” Monir, my friendly neighborhood convenient store clerk, asks as he points to the ceiling. How do I tell him I won’t fuck him on a roof?

Oh. The virgins. In the heaven. Oh, of course I’ve read the Qu’ran and pamphlets you gave me. OF COURSE. Will I be your “honey” in heaven? Like…Islamic I-get-virgins heaven? Uhm, sure. I’ll move in with you and we’ll set up a sweet pad. In the heaven I’m not allowed in. Great.

Mom, in case you’re reading this, there’s still hope for me getting into heaven. Even if it’s by invitation only.

The Night the Bathroom became the Porcelin Chamber of Death

March 31, 2009


Anyone who has ever smoked weed more than three times knows that EVERYTHING IS BETTER when you’re high. ESPECIALLY sandwiches. So, as any logical person would do, I smoked and waited. After a while, my inner monologue started peer pressuring me. “I’m already high. This sandwich is going to be amazing. But I wonder how it could be even MORE amazing?” Naturally, I smoked more. The first half of the sandwich was the best sandwich I have ever eaten. The second half sort of fell out of my mouth because I forgot how to chew, generate saliva, and swallow.

If you think conquering a sandwich while you’re stoned is frustrating, try a CRIPPLING FEAR OF EXPLODING. Twenty minutes later I was formulating debris patterns and trying to figure how to make the first few cognitive seconds of the impending explosion as painless as possible. This meant, of course, staying out of the PORCELIN CHAMBER OF DEATH that is/would have been my bathroom. And I had to poop SO BAD.

Eventually I decided to lay down. Since I am also terrified of a) being murdered b) my apartment being haunted c) having a heart attack and d) that a romantic squabble next door will end in my being shot and killed inadvertently, silence was a cruel, fear-mongering mistress.

The Airing of Grievances: LOST

February 19, 2009

What I know about LOST:

  • While hunting, Locke finds a hatch.
  • Some crazy bitch tries to kill Locke because her brother died.
  • Locke is pretty shady, but cool with me.
  • There is time travel.
  • The island disappears and seems to be controlled by The Wizard.
  • Desmond almost goes crazy via time travel, but figures shit out.
  • Someone got raped.
  • Batmanuel.

What I don’t know about LOST:

  • How everyone got on the island.
  • How some people got off.
  • Why those people want to go back.
  • What the government has to do with it.
  • How a wheel moved AN ENTIRE ISLAND.

What I know about real life:

  • Islands don’t move.
  • People don’t travel through time.
  • No bitch is that loyal.
  • Body hair does not suspend itself in time.
  • Batmanuel.
  • I haven’t had a TV in two years.

Why I Love Faulty Editing in High Profile Literature

February 19, 2009

A few years back there was (and probably still is) chain-mail circulating about the human brain and how it processes the written word through the little seeing parts in our faces. It went a little something like this:

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it deosn’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht frist and lsat ltteer is at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed ervey lteter by itslef but the wrod as a wlohe.

Therefore, it would be correct to assume that no matter how fucked up a word is, our brains will still figure shit out. Knowing this, it’s a wonder we proofread anything. Admittedly, I read every blog I post 4897248 times before and after publishing. Typos are distracting even IF our brains instinctively know what the writer is trying to convey.

Until recently, typos in high-profile literature infuriated me. I would rant, as I am prone to do, that SOMEONE should have noticed. The reader isn’t getting paid to proofread and therefore should not be expected to. I started reading with a pen handy and obsessively correcting grammar, spelling, and punctuation. And I wonder why no one talked to me in college.

Editing books while you read them is like walking into the zoo with a doggie-doo bag and picking up peacock droppings instead of walking around them like you’re supposed to. They are majestic birds. They poop. LOOK AT THE FUCKING BIRDS AND PUT THE GODDAMNED BAG AWAY.

A year ago I would have whipped out my pen and added the “n” to “many” on pg. 3 of If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor. But instead, I wished I had a penis I could whip out in homage to faulty editing (and Sam Raimi). Someone MUST have noticed that typo. And that same someone must have realized that it was much more difficult to stop the presses and reprint for a small mistake no one would notice because an English university no one cares about spammed our inboxes in 1997. The typo stays. And I rejoice inwardly (and through random happy text messages) that the person who gets PAID to proofread is the kind of person with a “fuck it” attitude toward life.

I could learn something from you.

John Mayer Redeems Himself.

April 10, 2008

In high school, I was obsessed with John Mayer and Jason Mraz. I lived in a small town, went to a Christian high school, and was a frumpy, short-haired rumour mill. As sheltered musical tastes matured, so did I. After Heavier Things and Mr. A-Z respectively, I decided it was time to move on. Both artists seemed either too consumed with themselves or too lofty for semi-decent bathroom humour. Junior albums didn’t seem to grow with their audience, but instead stood still while the rest of us were growing up.

Recently, Perez Hilton took a lie-detector test to prove to US Magazine that John Mayer slipped him the tongue in a make-out session. Turns out, Perez ain’t no lying bastard. Unfortunately, he’s still a parasite of popular culture.

On any given night, in any given bar, you could tap a pretty girl on the shoulder, and tell her you’ll buy her a drink if she makes out with her friend. Assuming they’ve already been bought a few non-ultimatum drinks, both girls will oblige with more gusto than you bargained for. And, since you don’t have a shot with either of them, you’ll be hauling your boner into the nearest restroom and staring your pitiful self straight in the mirror while you relieve the stress you begged so hopelessly for.

John Mayer most likely made out with Perez Hilton. The only thing I have to complain about is John Mayer’s taste.

How John Mayer subtly won his way back into my heart: