Freedom is Slavery

Well, slap me with a Skinner box!  I am but a poor and lowly pigeon.


   I just texted the Landlord and offered him $4100 in cash to renew my lease.  It’s more than he deserves.  His demanding five months of rent upfront is illegal and morally deplorable (I haven’t told him that I know this–I don’t want to antagonize the man).  He hasn’t been giving me interest on my original security deposit, either.  

     If he tells me to get lost, I’ll start looking for places today.  There is a landlord somewhere in the East Village who wants this cash.  

     I am returned to a sort of indentured servitude, and the only thing I feel is relief.  I have existed in a state of unrelenting fear for weeks.  I have seldom been so demoralized and humiliated.  And my mother–WTF?  

     That chest-thumping “Apartment Update” post from a few days ago..? 

      Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.  Proverbs 16:18

      Am I a prostitute because I took his money…?  Tell you what: I don’t care if I am.  If that makes me a prostitute, you can accessorize me with a street lamp and a public defender right now.  

       You don’t know desperation till you’re barfing from panic in the middle of the night in a bar with “cabaret” in its name.  I am now seriously considering a career trajectory that helps victims of human trafficking.  If nothing else, I’ll find an org that specializes in this and cut them a fucking check every other month till I die.  

      Whether the landlord accepts my offer or not, it’s all over but the shouting.  The crisis has been resolved.  It’s done.  It’s done, and so am I. 

Sorry for the blurry photo.  My hand was shaking. 
Cash is sort of heavy.  Who knew?  It smells weird, too. Come and get it, landlord.  You torturing scumbag.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.