Broken Apartment

Ever since moving to my new place back in May, I feel like Jekyll/Hyde. I love my apartment. I hate my apartment. I love my side-view of Central Park. I hate the rotted, warped floors. I love my big kitchen. I hate my teeny bedroom. I love my huge closet. I hate cockroaches.

I love the flea market across the street. I hate scary alley pigeons. I love Shake Shack. I hate the long lines at the Shake Shack. I love Loehmann’s and Filene’s Basement and Westside Markets. I hate Pinkberry. I guess those are just my neighborhood, not my apartment but I feel an all-encompassing neutral energy about the whole thing. This is how it is in Manhattan. Unless you have bajillions of dollars, nothing is your way and every positive moment is canceled out by a low blow. I love that I live in a better neighborhood, closer to work, closer to bars, closer to everything and I pay, on average, less that I did before. And now I have turtles. But,


The old-timey heater exploded and shot steam all over our bedroom. That thing on the ground is supposed to keep that from happening. And this is a staged picture - that thing flew off into our laundry hamper!