"Barn barn."

I tried again to look at the Craigslist apartments. It used to be my routine for about three weeks solid -- open up Craigslist and search through the same recycled five apartments pretending to be in Williamsburg or Clinton Hill that were actually located in Bed-Stuy. But I didn't want to have to go through the Craigslist real estate for the umpteenth time. I had an apartment, but some asshole was doing a good job at fucking up a well crafted plan.

I could feel my jaw tightening and anger rising. "Slight Taste of Suburbia Delight," one link said before I noticed another apartment that upon further inspection was once listed back in September. Same misspellings, same place prentending to be in Williamsburg. I clicked on some more links looking for a suitable Plan B. After a long frustrated exhale, I fantasized about marching down to the new apartment on Jefferson Street and telling the squatter to fuck off and get out. I imagined him in his electricity free cave bewildered at my appearance and my creative use of obscenity. I imagined him quickly leaving.

There's still a chance that the Jefferson Street apartment will work out. Maybe he will get out before the 14th. At least that's what I tell myself.