Fart Clouds and Final Offers

A thing we can probably file under “Only in New York” is getting trapped in a movie star’s fart cloud for two blocks. I was carrying my laundry out of the place when she stopped to look at her phone. And I should’ve gone past her then. But the laundry lady’s trained Woody to wait for his treat. So I ended up behind said movie star when she started moving again, just free spraying whatever she had for dinner. Every time I tried to get around her, Woody would find something to sniff, probably trying to clear his nose. Any time I thought we were finally clear of the cloud, she’d let it rip again. Honestly, I’m impressed.

Photo by Matan Levanon on Unsplash

There should’ve been a parking report yesterday. But I had to go to Brooklyn on Wednesday and now I’m on the Friday side of the street. I don’t want to be on the Friday side of the street. I don’t know why I like it less on the Friday side, but I do. Maybe it’s because Thursday still seems like I have time to finish a thing or two. Friday, I’m fucked.

I am actually kind of fucked. And I did it to myself. Wasted a couple weeks texting and emailing and calling every listing for a shitty studio from Harlem to Flatbush. I kept getting emails after the fact. They wanted fucking bids. On fucking studios. Rentals. In fucking Flatbush.