Leases and Jesse Pinkman, Bitch
Today I signed a lease for a new apartment.
This phrase may not seem important enough to stand alone as a paragraph, however in my limited world, signing a lease is much a kin to a successful surgical operation to separate conjoined twins. Accept of course, much more impressive.
Why? Well because I’m psychotic. Because I fear commitment the way most people fear cancer or American Idol result night. I live in constant fear that if I commit to something, anything, I will have to miss out on the opportunity for something better. Howie Mandel would make me his bitch.
But it’s different with this apartment. Sure there are cigarette holes in the carpet, and the bedroom is smaller than a French prison cell, but the second my landlord-to-be told me the apartment was most recently rented to a heroin addict crack dealer, I knew it was meant to be. How? Two words.
It’s not that Breaking Bad has changed my life, but rather, Breaking Bad has completed my life, and meth-addict turned heroin-addict Jesse Pinkman had a large part to do with that. It’s not just his ghetto speak and unnecessary attraction to Big and Tall clothing sizes that feed my will to live, but the sensitive interior beneath the surface of his crack-head stupor.
Sooo naturally when I heard my new digs is a former drug haven, my eyes glazed over and within hours I took the apartment. Needless to say I will need some sort of security plan. I’m thinking I’m going to pull a Home Alone, and whenever someone knocks on my door, simply play this:
The girl with the lease, bitch