We're leaving you, because we don't love you.

Last night was the talk. Now for anyone else, the "Hey we're moving out" talk would be casual, or at least not be nerve wrecking enough that anyone stumbling into my room last night would not find a small Asian girl and myself knocking back shots of polish vodka from the bottle to give us liquid courage. Instead exactly what you think happened happened. Both of us were literally shaking with nerves. It's a bit like how Margaret Cho explains long term, live-in break ups. It's very much like a game of trying to join an already started game of double dutch, at least for our other roommate apparently. It went from Oh, is that your margarine to OMFG WE HATE LIVING HERE AND WANT TO LEAVE, NOT SEPARATELY OF COURSE, BUT TOGETHER, BECAUSE WE LIKE EACH OTHER.

To be brief the phrase, "it's us, not you came up". She cried, said she really liked us, and we said "Oh well Brooklyn is a small place, I'm sure we'll see each other all the time". We were a hair away from giving the roommate version of break up sex. I assume of course such things exist. Either way it was awkward and we felt like we had actually broken up with her and then started making out in front of her, while she cried and self-harmed. It was not fun.

Of course, I would happily continue to bear this cross, if not for the fact that I just found my room advertised on craigslist for $50 less. Yep. Sorry, don't really feel like carrying the cross today Jesus, you're on your own.

So the apartment hunt is on. In New York I've discovered it's a bit of a marathon to the finish, (the finish of course does not involve a ribbon and water bottles, but instead homelessness) and so we're off!
Wish me luck on apartment hunting part deux. This time *should* be less awful than the first.