I have been living in this apartment now for just over a week and it's actually starting to feel like it belongs to me. I was going to post some photos for you to laugh at - herbs in terracotta pots and the fridge where my babies sleep - but I have lost the cable which connects my camera to the pooter. Blame the movers as indeed I am blaming them for everything. I have lost my teapots and that cutlery I stole from the Algonquin. Fuckers. I shan't call to complain though. I will just KNOW for all eternity that they lost my shit and think mean thoughts about them from time to time. Shit yeah.

It's nice this place. The last apartment I bought was during the last century and in London. It was cute and small and I actually found some pictures of it last night when I rooting through old photographs, getting nostalgic for the days of my yoof in London and driving myself insane trying to remember the reason why I never ended up with blokes A through at least H. They were all photogenic at least and you can't really ask for more than that.

But this place feels different. I have a feeling it's because I am renovating it and therefore personalizing it. The tiles in the bathroom still bring tears to my eyes when I look at them. I like to open the door of the wine fridge and touch the cool bottles. I love the ice drawer in my freezer with its camp scoop. I want to straddle my washing machine when it's in spin cycle because, yes, I love it that much. Laundry! Is there anything else in the entire world worth doing as much as blessed laundry?

So yeah it's nice here. No cell phone reception. Not much light. Neighbors who are as loud as all hell in the sack. [It appears as though I am living next door to a sexual athelete who can bring women to orgasm about eight times in a forty five minute period (I think she fakes, but hey, I am bitter obvs). Fuck, maybe I moved next to Mr Pussy.].

Hahahahhahahahhahahahahahha.

Ok. We all know that was an "only on HBO" special.

Night night.