Boba Fret’s Bachelor Pad: Part I

I have a latent insecurity that always bubbles to the service when I’m about to buy something expensive. You know, like a car, a new TV…a pure-bred alpaca. Whatever. I just hate dumping a lot of cash into one thing. Because no matter how much homework I do … no matter how much I shop and compare … I always feel like I’m getting ripped off.

I’ll walk away from a purchase picturing the salesman laughing, telling his buddies that lunch is on the sucker who just overpaid $1,500 for that used two-door coup no one else would test drive, let alone buy.

I feel like a mark. And it makes dealing with salespeople, well … unpleasant.

So, naturally, buying an apartment is an experience akin to inserting a rusty shiv under my toenail. Not only do I think I’m going to get screwed, I’m going to live inside the very entity that screwed me over. (There’s some kind of deeper cosmic joke here, but I suspect it has something to do with my mother, and I don’t feel like making that kind of joke so close to Christmas.)

And searching for an apartment? Equally painful. So painful, in fact, that if the alternative (living with my parents) weren’t so much more excruciating, I’d probably lose all motivation, curl up in front of my PC and watch Commando for the 32nd time. (I have a running tally).

But resignation be damned, this week and next I’ll venture out into the high rises of New England’s rising star (and the other, less luminous, stationary stars surrounding our city) to look for a place to live.

From the illegal third-floor flats of the West End (“Where’s the stove? In the bathroom? Oh, cool.) to the $1,500+ high rises near the capitol (Where’s the bathroom? Four doors down and take a left at the kitchen? Oh cool.) I’m hitting anywhere and everywhere…whether I can afford it or not. And I’m taking you poor suckers along for the excruciating ride.

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