And so it was that we signed the papers on a new apartment. We can start moving in any time after the 16th, having parted with several thousand dollars. We don't mind.

Because this apartment . . . is magnificent.

We still can't quite believe it. It's a couple hundred more than we were already paying, but when you factor in certain costs we incur at this place and compare it to this other place . . . it's like finding out that your rent is being raised by fifty bucks, but they're also adding on a new wing.

Let me try to summarize.

It has a wood fireplace. (It also has reg'lar heating, which is by all description awesome and cheap and not baseboard.)
It has an outside deck, on the lower level.
Oh, did I mention that? It has a lower level, where the two bedrooms are, each with their own bathrooms.
Oh, right! It has two and a half bathrooms; there's a half-bath upstairs.
It has a washer and dryer in the unit.
They happen to be in their own room, too. That would be the laundry room, the one with shelving.
It's next to the gigantic closet with the gigantic water heater that appears to contain enough water to scald a regiment of war-filthed Hessians.
The kitchen has a dedicated hot-water dispenser, which is, according to the owner, "great for tea." You know, fuck tea, but that's sort of awesome.
It includes a covered, secure parking spot.
And finally, one of the sinks has an adorable floral motif.

Holy fuck.

What we don't have is a view. You know what? Fuck views. Like I'm going to spend my evenings staring wistfully out my windows anyway. I would barely care if the place had no windows at all. We could open a casino. We look out into the surrounding greenery anyway, so it's not like there's derelict mimes taking a shit out there 24/7. That's a lot more interesting than watching rich douches sailing around Lake Union any day. (The greenery, that is. There are hydrangeas out there, not defecating buskers. But we can always recruit.)

The living room is the size of Delaware; we're going to have to buy a bunch of crap from Crate and Barrel just to prevent unpleasant echo effects when we speak. When I opened one of the kitchen cabinets, Henry Kissinger was in there. He hissed, "Leave me be! I come here to practice necromancy! You don't need the space! What will you put in here? A box of cereal as large as a toilet? Go! Go! Here is one thousand dollars." Fine with me, war criminal. Your money spends just like anyone else's. We'll never use up this absurd cabinet space.

It has a Brinks security system, for God's sake. I mean, it's not active or anything, but the owner told us we were free to fire it up. It's kind of tempting in a stupid way, just so I could show off to my friends. "Hold on, I have to deactivate the SECURITY SYSTEM." But then I'd feel pretty lame when my friends noticed that I was paying to protect my embarrassingly large collection of graphic novels, so.

THIEF: "Sucker! No security system at all! Sweet!"

(Thief looks around.)

THIEF: "30 Days of Night: Featuring Linus from Peanuts? I hate my job."

I might have forgotten to mention the helipad and the wild game preserve. The helipad will come in handy when my good friend Richard Branson stops by to insult my shoes and fuck expensive whores in the spare bedroom; the wild game preserve will please me when I get my frequent urges to lope around shooting torpid jungle cats in the brain with a high-powered rifle.

If there's one downer about the place, it's the "No Gloryholes" wording in the lease. In a place with 2 1/2 bathrooms, you really want to drill some gloryholes.

Man, now I'm a little bummed. Branson is going to give me a lot of shit about this. He really loves anonymous blow jobs.