I wrote a review of my toaster oven on Amazon. You should probably read it and definitely buy it, if you are a fire enthusiast or prefer your toast to look like this:

I still have not found a good toaster oven though. It’s been really hard, you guys. Life is, like, so hard. Sniff.

My father gives me a set of beakers. All of different sizes, including a tiny one that is so adorable you want to explode. These are all from his lab and MAY OR MAY NOT have been used to store caustic chemicals. But I do not care because these beakers are totally BOSS. They are awesome! I also got these little test tubes with screw tops, also very adorable. I have no idea what to put in them. My brother says to store urine in them but then he stops himself and says, actually you know what? It’s too small for urine–as if this is something I’m seriously considering. Yes, Mike, let me piss in a test tube and you know with this screw top, I can easily store it for…later? So I thank my father. I will enjoy these beakers. They’re even graduated! Bad ass, right?

So then my mother says, why are you giving our daughter beakers? What is that about? My father says well it’s for decoration. She can put pencils in them, store things, she can even drink out of them! My mother says, why on EARTH would Annie want to drink out of a beaker? She has CUPS for that. She doesn’t NEED beakers. Why would she want to drink out of that? My father says, because it is FUN! FUN! But, you don’t know FUN, do you? You don’t know it!

And then we all laugh because throughout all this, my father is wearing SUSPENDERS. But not just any suspenders. They are like 2.5 inch wide straps made out of the same material you would use for, like, a duffel bag strap. AND they are holding up plaid madras bermuda shorts, which do not actually require suspenders and also do not “go” with suspenders AND in addition, these are suspenders a carpenter would wear in order to hold up a heavy toolbelt, which, if you are paying attention, my father is not wearing because we are at home eating dinner together. The man does not even wear a toolbelt at work. And apparently not a regular belt. So a man wearing carpentry suspenders is telling my mother she does not know fun.

I tell my father, hey, why don’t I get you suspenders that are not, uh, THOSE suspenders. Something classy? And he goes WHY? Those probably cost, like $25? What a waste of money. And I go, how much did THOSE cost and he says $15 and I say for an extra ten United States dollars I would totally buy you nicer suspenders that don’t look like you are wearing an actual backpack except without the pack. And my brother and I have a discussion about suspenders, in which we bring up the rainbow ones that Robin WIlliams wore in Mork & Mindy (nanu nanu, what a retarded show, seriously that show is seriously retarded). So my father says what is the point, I do not wear these in public. But he is soooo close to wearing them in public I can feel it. I mean he’s wearing them around the house, what is to stop him from being like, shit I need to run out and get some milk, and then boom suddenly he is wearing suspenders in Ralph’s. This is what I’m saying.

But even backtrack from that, why is my father even WEARING suspenders? Why wear suspenders instead of a belt? It’s not like he has no belts. My father is a man with belts. So, I ask him this. What is up with the suspenders? He says because belts make him itchy. He has been wearing belts for over 60 years at this point and NOW he decides that belts make him itchy? How can belts even itch? They’re not made of wool. It makes NO sense at all. I don’t understand, but my father is wearing suspenders a steel worker would be wearing to hold up, I don’t know, some kind of badass tool that uses fire to cut metal. But my father is there at the kitchen table eating vegan spring rolls with his hands.

I have moved into the new office and into my new desk. And I did throw stuff out, I really did. But some of my shit I just could not part with. And other stuff, I was like WUHHHHHHH? You know, I spend a lot of my life saying WUHHHHH. And also OH SHIT.

So here’s more of my shit.

JURASSIC TATTOOS. I believe it was part of a birthday gift. I have used exactly two of them so far. I felt so POWAFUL when I walked into a bar in hip-and-with-it Williamsburg with my fucking badass Jurassic tattoos. When the bartender saw me, he flipped out and poured me a shot of whiskey with a razor blade. SO EDGY YOU GUYS.

Glow in the dark dinosaur. Yes, yes, everyone, I realize it is kind of pointless to have a glow-in-the-dark toy AT THE OFFICE.

Ricola. This isn’t really special EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT THEY EXPIRED IN 2005. People kept telling me they don’t go bad. But let me ask you this: Let’s say you are sick and have a sore throat. Would you eat a circa 2005 Ricola? Ok that’s what I thought, dick.

Say you are in Piccadilly and you are eating a casual breakfast. Dare I say it is a ‘continental’ one. You wonder, hmm, what tea you should I drink? Probably not this one because IT ALSO EXPIRED IN 2005.

You can’t tell in this photo, but the sugar inside the sugar packets feels like one big piece of wood. YES EVERYONE I SAID WOOD GIVE IT A REST. This probably expired in 2004.

This expired in 2002. WHY DO I STILL HAVE THIS and more importantly, WHY DID I MOVE THIS TO THE NEW OFFICES?

Cotton pads in a zip-lock baggie. There is a very, very good reason why I have this. A while back I opened my desk drawer and found MOUSE SHIT. AS IN, SHIT THAT COMES FROM A FUCKING MOUSE. This was around the time we walked into the office and “smelled something funny” and someone discovered a dead mouse behind his desk. It was a heavy scene. So, I read online that mice do not like peppermint oil. You just douse a bunch of cotton pads with peppermint oil and they will take a whiff and go shit in someone else’s desk. It worked by the way.

Shoes, one pair. Brown. From J.Crew, but from 1995. I guess I was going to donate them and they fell out of the bag and have been sitting under the desk. So I was going to donate them and then realized, wait, these are kind of cute now because the NINETIES ARE BACK. My feet have not grown since 1995. I have whimsical little elf feet. Sometimes I frolic through meadows and jump off of daisy petals.

My architect friends used their laser cutter to make me these. They spent like an hour in AutoCAD doing this. I think we can all agree it’s the best use of CAD we’ve ever seen.

One Darth Vader, in LEGO form. Given to me by my homie-4-lyfe Nathan Bowers.

People like to give me bacon toys. It’s just something people like to give me. Nathan’s relatives used to give him tons of elephant shit. Like little figurines or what not. And I was like dude, do you even like elephants and he kind of shrugged. It’s one of those things that ONE person gives you an elephant and then everyone thinks you actually like elephants and suddenly you have this curio shelf littered with elephants. That might be my bacon. This is Monsieur Tofu and Mr. Bacon. They are frenemies of the state.

In related news, I would like a monocle but it is unlikely due to my Asian face. But man how badass would a monocle be? OH LOOK I HAVE 20/20 OUT OF (only) ONE EYE. The only dude who can pull of a monocle is Mr. Peanut.

CAMPING STOVE. I’ve had this under my desk since 2006. It’s not even MINE. I mean, really. Do I look like the type of person who’d own a camping stove? But this is what I know: During the apocalypse, I will be prepared. While everyone else cries emo tears into their can of cold, condensed soup, I will be having fajitas.

YOU’RE WELCOME EVERYONE.

I meant to post this earlier. But if any of you are in the Los Angeles area and wonder, hmm if there was only a place where I could get a sunless tan and also a flu shot… Well, hit me up because I have a great recommendation. The bad news is that it’s in the VALLEY. But the bonus is that it’s ONE STOP SHOPPING.

Next door you can find a place where you can get a colonic, a knitting class, and get your dog groomed. Note that “dog grooming” is not code for anything. JK. It is total code for a handjob shack. OH SHIT ANNIE PLEASE BEHAVE.

Our offices moved across the street last week, so we had to pack up our desks. Now for NORMAL people, it might take an hour or two to pack up their crap. They get their shit together and then they head to the nearest bar and catch the silver bullet or what have you. I think my co-worker packed her desk in like three minutes. Opened a box, threw everything in, taped it up. WHO’S BUYING ME A DRINK?

Then there’s me. I’m not going to say I am NOT normal, but let’s just say I am not “typical”. How about that? That sounds better than “abnormal,” right? The word “abnormal” always sounds so medical to me. Like oh hey, we found an abnormal growth. We think it might be a vestigial tail, etc.

Anyway, packing took me SEVERAL hours and I had to spread it over two days because it was so taxing. And of course every single co-worker stopped by my desk and had to comment on the amount of stuff I had. LIKE YES I KNOW DUDE, I’M PACKING IT UP AND I SEE THAT YES, I HAVE A LOT OF SHIT and also, HEY, DON’T YOU HAVE TO BE AT A MEETING OR SOMETHING? K THANKS.

I should note that I have a desk, and it’s small. I don’t have my own office or a cubicle. It is just a desk with a small three-drawer filing cabinet thing underneath. I’ve been there for about 5 years. And in that 5 years, I have managed to collect an amazing amount of garbage. Here is what I found:

This is a plate. My co-worker bought it for me on her trip to Israel. In 2005. Yes, 2005. I literally found it in my files. Just filed away, like a report or an expense sheet, in a hanging file folder. It is a regular dinner sized plate. Hand painted ceramic. It has a crack in it because plates do not like being filed away.

This is an alarm clock. It winds up. This means you have to wind it up every day. It was a gift from someone. It’s old. I got it and I squealed THIS IS SO CUTE! Then I wound it up and it was just the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. It made me anxious because it was like I needed to defuse a bomb RIGHT NOW before the whole building blew up. Kind of like that scene in the Hurt Locker. Where you are like OH MY FUCKING GOD HURRY UP YOU DICK WHAT IS THE HOLD UP? I originally had it at home, but it was so fucking loud I brought it into the office thinking it’d be better there, and you know what? It wasn’t. My coworker threatened to throw it out the window to “see time fly.” HA HA HA HA. (She really did threaten to break it though.)

These are golf balls. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, oh hey, does Annie golf? The answer is NO. I do NOT golf. These ballz happen to say COSMO on the side. As in Cosmo magazine. As in, “Ten Ways to Sleep With Your Boss” Cosmo or “Be Bikini Ready” Cosmo or “Taylor Swift Talks About Music, Love, and Waxing Her Legs” Cosmo. My co-worker’s friend works for Cosmo and sends her a big box of shit every so often. Then I sometimes get little tidbits of awesome shit. Like these golf balls. What I did is chose two random people and mailed them the balls with a sticky note that says “As discussed here are the balls. Enjoy!” That’s it. No return address, no note, and unsigned. These are people I do NOT know. One was Nat’s boss and one was a co-worker’s father. Pretty funny right? Yes I can tell you are laughing.

No desk is complete without a reporter’s notebook with Anderson Cooper on the cover. This was from Aura and I still use it. I feel very very pro when I bust it out. LIKE LOOK AT ME I’M A HARD-HITTING JOURNALIST ALSO I AM A LOOKER ALSO I’M A VANDERBILT AND I’M LOADED AND I GUESS YEAH, I’M GAY BUT EVZ NOT A BIG DEAL I LIKE TO PICK UP HOT LATIN MEN IN AIRPORTS (true story, that is apparently something Andy Cooper did. I’m not judging, just merely making an observation).

Origami Christmas. It is the day Jesus made an origami crane and was all, yo check it out, I didn’t use glue or scissors to make this shit and then everyone was all, oooo ahhhhh it must be some kind of Christmas miracle!

A list of words my co-worker has a hard time saying or says it “weird.” It is actually work-related but I also like to have it around because it makes me laugh at her expense. I can be a real dick, but at least I say “poem” right. HAR HAR (sorry K, I love you. Let’s go to the muZAYum.)

Two kinds of hand sanitizer. I am a very thorough person.

Shot glass, that a co-worker got me from St. Lucia. I have never used it. But I keep it at the office because WHAT IF YOU WANT TO DO A SHOT AT THE OFFICE? THEN I WILL NEED A SHOT GLASS.

One pair of duck feet. I do not know where the rest of the duck is, but the feet are here with me. So if you guys see a feet-less duck, then you know who to call.

An agate. I can tell you’re jealous.

A drawing by Mr. Pony. It says “Why you lie to me Annie?” I ask myself that question every day. Aww. There is something about a sad bear that makes me laugh. Like you’re a fucking bear, you get to sleep half the year. Why are you so fucking sad? Like, I know why I’m sad. Because I’m not a goddamn bear. You’re a BEAR. Fucking man up, dick.

Typewriter ribbon, black. I went to this office supplies store on our street and asked if they had ribbon and they all made fun of me. They were like MAYBE YOU CAN PICK UP ONE AT THE STORE THAT SELLS PAGERS. No joke. I bought it online. It of course does not fit any of my typewriters.

Ukelele tab sheet. I know you have one too, so I guess this isn’t that weird.

I have more stuff, which I will “share” another day. Stay tuned. There is just so so so much more for you to see.

I’D LIKE TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING. THIS IS A PICTURE OF THE WATER COOLER IN MY OFFICE.

I think it’s juice? Tea? I have NO idea. What makes that color even? It looks like the water cooler had its PERIOD all over the place. It’s disgusting. And whoever did it is certainly NOT going to clean it up. Especially since I just yelled at the entire floor for being fucking disgusting. So no one’s gonna own to that. Not after me going OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? FUCKING CLEAN YOUR SHIT UP.

This is like only marginally better than the Lady Who Pees All Over the Seat. The big difference, other than urine, is that the LWPAOtS doesn’t work in the same office. This MYSTERIOUS PERSON WHO PUT THE WATER COOLER ON THE RAG is someone I see every day. Dude. I’m going to scream.

Maybe it’s Haterade.

I send my laundry out to get done. This is because I have a life to lead. Also this is what New Yorkers do. They pay someone a ridiculous amount of money to do their laundry. I feel that New Yorkers are always paying a ridiculous amount of money for something–shoes, coats, handbags, coffee. Except not cabs. Cabs are cheap here. I rode a cab in L.A. once. Have you guys done this? It’s like $1,000 dollars. That’s USD. Laundry’s cheap in L.A. It’s free if I do it at my parents’ house, but I mean, in general. Everyone in L.A. has a washing machine. Because they are civilized people. In New York, some of us don’t even have bathroom sinks.

Anyway, I get my laundry back and what I’ve noticed is that over the years, I’ve slowly lost a bunch of underwear and socks and shirts. Like I used to just be swimming in goddamn underwear and socks, and now suddenly I have like 3 pairs of each. Horrible. Sometimes I think the laundry people just steal my undies and my socks just so I have to do laundry more often, but actually they don’t do that because they are Korean and you know, Koreans try not to stick it to other Koreans, though who knows. Maybe they don’t give a shit. Point is, yes, I send out my laundry.

So in this last load, instead of losing something, I got a little extra something. Here I am putting away my neatly folded clothes because Koreans know how to fold goddamn clothes like champions, and I see this shirt. It is gray. I have many gray shirts. But this particular shirt does not belong to me. How do I know this?

Because it is a crop top.

Let’s discuss crop tops, shall we? Crop tops make NO sense to me. It is like, hey here’s a shirt, oh wait WHERE IS THE REST OF IT? I DON’T KNOW IT IS A MYSTERY. I GOT IT ON SALE IT WAS HALF OFF HA HA HA HA.

But I have a question: Where does one wear a crop top? Where are you like, hmmm what should I wear today? Oh I’m going to the office, maybe I should wear my CROP TOP. Or, hey do you want to go out to dinner? Yeah sure, let me just go home and change into my CROP TOP. Oh I have to appear in court today good thing I’m wearing my CROP TOP. Like I just don’t know when it’d be appropriate to wear one. Maybe when you go to Jazzercise on Tuesday nights.

IN ADDITION: Most people look like ASS in crop tops. I mean that. It’s just such an unflattering shape. Accentuates a good thing–perhaps–but at the expense of a lot of other things. EVEN if you have rock hard tasty abs. It just looks totally unclassy. My mother would totally be appalled. She would be like OH MY GOSH YOU SEE HER BELLY. WHERE IS REST OF HER SHIRT? And I’d be like dude, pay attention, it is a mystery.

CROP TOP.

Also: It’s like fucking COLD here right now. WHY ARE YOU WEARING A CROP TOP IN THIS WEATHER?

I’m turning into an old lady. Sad, but also, awesome.

To whoever barfed in my subway station this morning:

I want to salute you for being you. Thank you. You are a winner. You are the triumphant champion of Thursday night raging. I can tell you had a lovely night.

Here is how I think it went down: It started with happy hour. I find that his is how most Thursday night ragings start. How can anyone resist a 2-for-1? A two-for! Everyone loves a bargain, especially you. How about 2 for $6 special on drafts? How can anyone resist half off martinis? I don’t even drink martinis, but if it’s half off, I’m sure as hell going to drink the shit out of one. Or what about the $5 can of Tecate + tequila? Tecate is not a good beer. And tequila is not a good liquor, for the most part. But together they make even the saddest hour a most happy occasion. So it started there. At a bar, after work. Co-workers came. Then friends came. And then suddenly it is only 7 o’clock post meridian. You are having a very good time, but there’s a problem.

You are hungry.

This is where members of the group split off. But not you. You do not quit. You are no fucking quitter. You are a champion. You are the conqueror. You are a barbarian, a machine, a terminator, a killer. You are, in some ways, every role Arnold Schwarzenegger ever played, except for the kindergarten cop.

You decide you are going to eat the living shit out of dinner. You and friends decide on a place. Someone says, I know this Italian place. It is close. Close is good. You go. You are seated right away because its only 7:30. That is when the wine portion of the evening begins. You get the cheapest, most drinkable merlot. Cheers, clink, etc. You decide to order the spaghetti bolognese. Why not? You deserve it. It has been one hell of a week, even though, technically, it is not over. But first, another bottle for the table. You may or may not spill on your shirt. If you’re me, you probably spill on your shirt. But you’re not me. You are a person who is eating spaghetti bolognese. Without the salad though. Because salad is an unnecessary part of Thursday night raging. Salad is for civilized Saturday night dates with a lady and/or gentleman friend. Fuck salad anyway.

But then, another bottle of wine. At this point, if you are keeping track, you are on the third bottle for the table. But, you know, there are maybe five of you, so it’s not that big of a deal, right? Also you’re eating so that soaks it all up, so it doesn’t count. Right? Yeah, no it doesn’t count.

Dinner is over, and you, to be honest, have maybe a little rager going on in your brainspace. You are having a very interesting and awesome time with this drinkable merlot. Or now maybe it’s a granache. Whatever, it’s red. It’s on your shirt.

Ok how about ONE MORE drink? You know because it’s not even 9 o’clock yet. Let’s kick it at this other bar. I know a place. Now this bar is crowded. For some reason there are Australians in this bar. You are talking to an Australian. You decide to buy the Australian a drink, and also one for yourself. Not because you want to make pants sandwich with this Australian, but because the Australian is a garrulous and friendly kind of person. You decide on whiskey because, why not? You’re certainly not going to order Foster’s. They don’t have that crap here. It’s Tecate or whiskey. Again with the Tecate. Not a good beer. Later you order it anyway even though it is no longer the hour of happiness and the special is not in affect. This is because you thought the special was in affect.

Now it is official. You are drunk. You are not pissing on yourself or anything, but you realize, you know what? I’m an adult person. I have a good job, I’m a responsible person. I should probably go home. Do I cab it? Do I take the subway? Well, it’s only 11 o’clock. I should save money. This is what you are thinking. Money should be saved. Cabs are a luxury for Saturday night. This is Thursday, fuckers. Subway it is. Wait, is the C train running?

You walk down the stairs, and then. Well, you know how it went down. You feel something. A little rumble in the Bronx as they say, except you are in Manhattan. Funny how that works. And now you do the sway, that’s like the move where you are listening to Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer” in your private brain and really feeling it. Well it might be a Strokes song though. Should I sit down on the steps just for a second? NO, no the steps are gross. Haven’t been cleaned since 1995.

Wait…wait…something…is wrong.

Sploosh.

And then a pause. I think I feel better.

Sploosh.

You think, maybe a cab is in order.

So that is what you do. You don’t sploosh in the cab though. It is some kind of Jesus baby miracle.

You get home. Then you fall asleep, with your shoes on. Lights are also on. Pants most definitely on, though maybe it’s a little unbuttoned. Glasses somewhere. Dunno where. Phone somewhere too, most likely in the cab. Or in the bar with the Australians.

Then the next morning, a person goes down the subway, running to the train that is pulling into the station. And perhaps this person steps in your spaghetti bolognese.

This person may or may not be me, Annie Choi.

Congratulations, friend. You have kicked the living shit out of Thursday night. You deserve an award. I salute you.

For whatever reason I always wake up hungry. Though to be clear, I’m pretty much hungry all the time. I have to eat like every five minutes, it’s extremely irritating. Because when I don’t eat, I become this total MONSTER ASSHOLE. You can see the transformation. I get this total bitch face and then I say shit like WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU NEED TO MAKE A PHONE CALL? HOW DARE YOU. YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE, etc. I don’t mean it. Please don’t take it personally. I think you are a fine human being and you don’t deserve to be on the other end of my bitch face.

So yeah. This morning, I wake up. I’m hungry, and I turn to toast. Toast is my best friend. Toast has been with me since the very beginning. Toast keeps me happy. I don’t know anyone who eats more toast than me. I TRIPLE DOG DARE YOU TO OUT TOAST ME. Seriously. It is my favorite. I’ve actually blogged about toast before, several times before, and I’m sure I’ll blog about toast again. Maybe even next week.

So I make toast and I am pondering possible toast fixin’s. Do I go with butter? Or peanut butter? Or just some jam? Or maybe a slice of cheese and some tomato? Or maybe I should use cream cheese and cucumber OH MY GOD MY TOASTER IS ON FIRE IT’S FUCKING ON FIRE! HOLY MOTHER OF SHIT! PUT IT OUT PUT IT OUT PUT IT OUT! OH GOD HOW DO I PUT IT OUT, OH MY GOD TOAST IS GOING TO BURN MY APARTMENT DOWN AND SOMEONE TELL ME WHY MY SMOKE DETECTOR IS NOT GOING ON EVEN THOUGH MY APARTMENT IS FILLING WITH TOAST SMOKE AND OH MY GOD IT’S STILL GOING. IT’S A RAGING TOWERING INFERNO OF TOAST! WAIT DID I PAY MY RENTER’S INSURANCE BILL THIS YEAR? SHIT I DON’T REMEMBER, OH MY GOD THERE IS FIRE IN MY TOASTER! WAIT DIDN’T THIS HAPPEN BEFORE? I’M PRETTY SURE THIS HAPPENED BEFORE WHY THE HELL DO I STILL HAVE THIS STUPID PIECE OF SHIT TOASTER? DUDE IT’S STILL ON FIRE!!!

So then I manage to get my shit together long enough to put the fire out but then I noticed I had made a horrible mistake. Here, let me show you a picture.

THE TOASTER TOASTED ITSELF. I realize this is not a good picture but that’s because there’s not much to see. The toaster IS CHARRED. It is toast, as they say. I am going to throw this thing out the window. Or maybe drive over to the Black and Decker headquarters and throw it at them because I’m so OVER this thing.

So my apartment is filled with toast smoke and I open every window even though i’s like 30 degrees. But that’s not saying much because I only have two windows in my entire apartment. And then I open my front door to release the toast smoke into the hallways because I’m a dick and I want my neighbors to suffer too. Then I open the windows in the hallways because I feel bad for being a dick to my neighbors and then I realize it’s like REALLY COLD NOW. But the smoke is just sort of hanging around in my apartment and I’m like waving a towel around to fan it away. And then Sasha the 100 year old Argentinian lady upstairs comes down the stairs and sorta walks right into my apartment because when you’re 200 years old you can do shit like that and I’m thinking OH GOD Sasha is going to be PISSED I feel so bad, she’s at least 300 years old, the smoke will probably kill her. And she says “Annie thank you for helping me with my computer the other day.” (I helped her with her computer the other day). And SHE DOESN’T NOTICE ANYTHING even though my entire apartment is filled with smoke and there’s this piece of toast literally SMOLDERING on my kitchen counter. This is because she is like 400 years old and can’t smell or see. Poor Sasha, she is a nice lady.

So anyway, I just say fuck toast and I go to the office and I realize that my entire mammalian form smells like burnt toast. My hair, my jacket, my scarf. The inside of my nose smells like toast. Then I go to yoga and I’m kind of getting all sweaty and I smell like toast.

The end. I hate Black and Decker.

The management company of my building sent a guy to “deal with” the bathroom situation. The situation being that my apartment is a premium piece of shit. Imagine a really nice neighborhood. And then picture a piece of shit right in the middle of it. That’s my apartment. See? Premium piece of shit. In addition to it being 187 square feet (or, if you insist, 17 square meters) and in addition to the heat coming on every once in awhile and in addition to the naked neighbors drillin and chillin across the way and in addition to the recorder player who practices “Greensleeves” every morning at 7 am (That’s EST) and in addition to evidence of mouse poop in my silverware drawer and in addition to the dead roach I found in my laundry detergent the other day (seriously what is that about), the bathroom walls are basically disintegrating. Why you ask? Because when they tiled it in the first place they did a shit job. It’s like they smeared cream cheese on the walls, threw on some tiles, and called it a day. So of course, the walls got messed because, hello, I take showers in there. Everyday. Sometimes twice a day because that is how I do. But the real problem really has nothing to do with the bathroom, it is more that my apartment is a premium dump and there’s not much that can be done with that. It’s really a congenital problem. No amount of cosmetic surgery can fix the fact that my apartment is butt ugly. Like despite what your parents told you, sometimes shit is just ugly and there is no actual beauty on the inside.

Anyway, they sent a guy. His name is Julian and he’s like my new best friend. Sorry old best friends, you have been replaced.

So he starts working on the bathroom and I hear all this noise and he keeps saying stuff like “Oh no!” or “Oh dear!” or “This isn’t good” or, “Huh?” Then he says “Oh my God it’s like the Twin Towers in here!”

OK, so it’s not really like the Twin Towers. The Twin Towers actually had nicer bathrooms than this.

Anyway I fucking love this fucking guy. He is cracking me up. Talking about how he wants to ski down the Upper East Side when it snows on Sunday because he saw some rich white people do that and thought it looked fun or how he thought the management company was “drinking the wrong wine” because they had sent him to a different building and then he went on a tirade about how Miami is cold, as if somehow Miami being cold totally messes with his worldview here in New York.

Then he told me this story where he was fixing something in a neighbor’s apartment and the neighbor says “If you don’t finish this soon….” and then proceeded to PULL A GUN ON HIM. Dude! I should mention that the neighbor in question is like a hundred years old. OK, maybe not a hundred, but he’s definitely in his eighties. Pulled a gun on poor Julian, I mean what the FUCK. How can you pull a gun on this guy? He is the best ever, I mean sure he is kind of slow with the fixing of things and maybe he is more bro than pro and maybe he doesn’t do like the most excellent architectural-quality work, though—let’s face it—this building is pre-war, as in the French-Indian War, and maybe he is quite the chatterbox, but I would never EVER pull a gun on his ass. And if I were like eighty years old I sure as hell wouldn’t pull a gun on anyone. I’m fucking eighty, what more do I have to prove. Anyway, this is SoHo, bitch. This is how we do it. Shit is real.