Two weekends ago I began The Great San Francisco Apartment Hunt. I’m leaving sunny (and yes, sometimes downright hot as hell) Los Angeles for foggy San Francisco in search of a less trafficky-lifestyle (and thus reducing the chances that I commit a road rage-induced homicide or suicide) and an escape from gaggles of women who speak with a Kardashian-perfected vocal fry, end declarative statements with like, a questioning, like tone? and spend more time talking about their manicures and expensive designer handbags than the current Presidential election. The “why L.A. is making me grossly unhappy” list is a lot longer, but again, I’ll save that for another post.
Having had not much luck the first time (that kiss ass girl with the yappy dog got the apartment in the Marina, boohiss!), I flew up this weekend armed with a new strategy and attitude: I’m here to find a place and I will cut a bitch for an apartment.