The truth is, I want to fucking kill him. Because, not that long ago, I was a semi-together individual with some irons of my own in the fire, living in an apartment that had finally achieved the elegantly shabby je ne sais quoi one might hope for in a quaintly garret-like Brooklyn abode. And now I’m this wild-eyed person with scalloped rat barriers around her doors who watches her space heater on a baby monitor.
