Sequins are a Broke Diva's Best Friend

Chapter Two: #TheStruggleIsReal

     I think it is a worldwide agreement in saying that apartment hunting is quite the experience-- #TheStruggleIsReal, as the kids might say. When I first moved to New York City, my parents were still giving me some financial support and I was just starting college, so I was able to look into buying a nicer apartment than the one I live in now. But oh my god, when I was first looking for a place, I hired a real estate agent to help me find a good apartment; and she was a wackjob! Her name was Maria Pollywage, and let me tell you that she is probably the most psychotic person I have ever met (let alone being the person to help me go apartment hunting). When she came to meet me for the first time, it was outside of the campus of the college I was going to. She drove up in the tiniest car I've ever seen-- it looked extremely European-- at 70 miles per hour! Do you know how hard it is to get going that fast in this part of the city? It's impossible; she was literally doing the impossible with how fast she was driving. When she sharply pulled up to the curb, it was so fast that her back tires caught air. I'm surprised she didn't die in that moment.

"You must be Mason?" She said to the 19 year old me.

"Yeah. Are you Maria Pollywage?" I very nervously asked her.

"Well, are there aliens that break into my home to abduct my cat every night?" she asked, matter-of-factly. I just stared at her. "The answer is yes! Come, come into the car; I have some apartments to show you, little baby gay!" She said oh so sweetly demeaning.

"How do you know I'm gay?" I asked, uneasily getting into the car.

And then she went on a nice 15 minute rant that started off as her trying to tell me why she thought/knew I was gay, then ended up talking about everything from trying to moisturize with strawberry jelly, to putting toe-nail clippings into her salads for "an extra crunch". She drove about 70 miles per hour through the traffic-filled streets the whole way there-- and yes, somehow I'm still alive today --then showed me three apartments that were all for sale because the previous owners had been murdered in them. Let's just say I didn't ever use a realtor again.

But, now, today, 23-year-old me is out to go apartment hunting again. My lease is almost up and my pay is going down, so I'm in search for an apartment that somehow costs even less than the one I live in now. Whatever apartment this will be will seriously be the actual equivalence of living in a cardboard box on the street, but, like I said earlier, it is better than nothing.

I found a building with cheap apartments online the other day, so now I just have to get to them. I walk down the street, and stop by a food stand, because a girl gets hungry, okay? But, as I am paying for my food, I hear:

"Evian! Hi."

I look towards the sound of the voice and I see that it's Lacey, that girl from the club on saturday night. She clumsily fast-walks over to me from the other end of the sidewalk.

"Hey! It's me, Lacey. We talked last night at the club. Also, what's your real name? I think you forgot to tell me last night; and I have to say I feel kind of strange not knowing your real name." She quickly and loudly monologues as she approaches me.

"Oh, yeah, hey. I'm Mason, by the way." I say nervously, sort of like how I was when Maria Pollywage came up to me for the first time. This whole interaction has sort of thrown me off-guard. Out of all the people in New York City, how is it that I happen to run into this girl again? I'm nervous that maybe Lacey wants to be friends with me.

"Ah, that name suits you. I can't believe I noticed you; but to be quite honest, you really don't look that different in the sunlight and without makeup." she jokes.

"Girl, are you sure? I think I look pretty different with makeup on."

"Pretty, is right. Your face was dusted last night. You paint em good." she compliments.