Sunshine on my Butthole

For once, things seem to be going my way.

Mine and Robbo’s lease is up at the end of this month, and we love our apartment. It’s amazing. It has two floors, two bedrooms, a huuuge kitchen, a wide-open living room and a big back porch. It’s bright and airy and is truly the first place I’ve lived in a long time that feels like home. Have I mentioned that it’s on the Southside and we pay very little for it in terms of rent? I love this apartment.

So the building sold, from one landlord we never even met to another landlord, a slick dude with gelled hair and a silver bracelet. Not impressed. Slick Dude, or (“Marc Anthony,” as Robbo has taken to calling him) wants to renew our lease. We say, “awesome!” Now, due to our proximity to Southside Works, this apartment should be very expensive—especially because our old landlord was still charging the rent he charged before the Works was built. In fact, the former landlord had purchased our building and the ones around it for 40k each and resold each for 160k! Yeah, I imagine he’s moved to Aruba by now. Anyway, point is, I’m a worrier. I was completely convinced that our rent was going to skyrocket and that we’d either have to move, or suck it up and pay it and be poor all the time.

So yesterday, “Marc Anthony” comes over to give us the new lease. He hands it to me with his slick hands and says, “So the rent we’re gonna do is…”
I hold my breath.
He says the number.
I instinctively shake my head a bit, as though to clear the cobwebs. Are you kidding me?

The new rent is 50 bucks lower than what we were paying before.

Suckers!! One more year at Jane Street!