Panic at the disco digs
I have a small knot of worry in my stomach. The kind I feel when my world’s about to be turned on its ear.
We got a note from the landlord a few days ago stating that they were going to be showing the building to potential mortgagees. My biggest concern was making sure the place was mildly presentable, and my biggest fear was that they would discover we had Sugar and had not signed a pet agreement and paid the pet deposit. So I spruced up the place a bit, and figured I’d play it dumb if they asked about Sugar.
But then I told my co-worker Rose about it this morning, and she said, "That’s bad. That means they may sell the place." Great. They sell the place. I get booted out. And I lose my super cheap, super conveniently-located posh pad on Nob Hill.
I hate moving more than anything. And I’d planned on living there ’til they pried my cold, dead hands from the place, or at least until I was in my 60s and decided to move into Ye Olde Gay Retirement Home.
Pray fo’ me, jiggas!
