The better room was offered to me a few minutes ago and I accepted it.
While waiting for the appointed time to go see the apartment, I had called the former prospective roommate and opted out of his deal, instead of waiting until after I saw the better situation. I knew what I wanted already and I had realized that a deal like this would be accessible again if it didn't work out. Craiglist is chocked full of offers everyday.
But it did work out.
And according to my calendar, I take up residence in 3 days. Now, George gave me until September, so I can do a very leisurely transfer of my goods and find a home for my dear cat.
Re: my cat. I wuv my little kitty, but I'm trying to take life to another level. A single, "middle-aged" guy with high affection for his cat is suspect. Plus my cat is a hairy little beast. She requires high maintenance which I don't use. So my bed and any black clothing is usually hair-crusted. And have you seen that commercial which huge tumbleweeds of cat hair blows through an old woman's house? There were times it got like that in my room. It was a cause for George (and his father) to gripe at me recently. To say nothing of the puked-up hairballs, which look much more like a soggy turd when produced than a hair"ball". I have to move on from her. In fact, I've seen how George acts with his cats, and from an outsider's pov, it is a strange sight. For most of my life, I've had cats--but for most of my life I've been dysfunctional too. I think my attachment to cats have been part of the package--so I'm letting the attachment go. I need the affection of another human being and the warmth of a woman in my bed. A cat will no longer do.
And my new roommates won't allow pets, so there it is.
And here it is. Just like that.
Like the Genie out of the bottle in "Thief of Bagdad"
In related news, last night George Jr. caught my eye as I came into the house and he was up in the kitchen slurping in something from one of the many strewn-about cartons of food laying on the counters surrounding him. He said;
"Hey Alan, guess where I am right now ...?"
I told him "Where?"
He said "I'm in the strat-o-sphere! heheh heheh."
I went downstairs to my section. He called after me, "Do you know what I mean by that?"
I mumbled to myself, "I think so, but I don't care anymore."
This is a conversation he's tried to have with me before. He likes to tell me when he's high. Why does he do that? Two possible reasons. 1) He wants my help, or 2) He thinks I'm into getting high. (Number Two is not too farfetched. He likes to try to talk streetslang to me. He seems fascinated with me as a black specimen, and in his mind, black seems to =street, pimplife, and getting high. Once when he brought his 'friends' to come down see me in my exhibit, they asked me, "Do you smoke?" as if they were going to either sell me some, or buy some off me. Which wasn't far-fetched to believe since his father was constantly high as well.)
Meanwhile, his father is back in the bedroom naked and unconscious. All this suburban, Eminem-style, faux-'hood, prescription-drug sucking, sons and grandsons of millionaire excess bullsh!t has neary killed my spirit.
So now Junior is 19. Him and his father are legal adults. And I can't help either one of them.
So I'm out.