So, the cold water faucet in our kitchen is broken.
The hot water works pretty well, which is nice. You need to scald the shit off some dishes? You turn that sucker on, and in seconds you have a great stream of steaming water that’ll take the grease off anything you want ungreased. You can even variate how much water you get, which is just fantastic. Turn the faucet an eighth of the way? You get a dribble. A fourth? A trickle. Half? A stream. All the way? The proper geyser effect. All of these include a healthy dose of minerals melted off the walls of the pipes, but ehh. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, or a gift faucet in the part where water comes out, I guess.
Mostly because it would scald your eyes.
Anyway, our hot water faucet is a happy, well-adjusted faucet. Goal-oriented. Good communication skills. But our cold water faucet? That is the problem child.
Say, for instance, that I am doing the dishes. You need the water to be warm, but not too hot, because you’re doing dishes here. Too hot and the instant you grab the sponge you’ll be like the Dune guy all sticking his hands in the gom jabbar.
BAM. NERD REFERENCE.
Point is, you’ll get burned, so you need a nice little dose of cold water to go with the hot, to make everything both tolerable and efficient.
Only our cold water faucet doesn’t really do ‘little doses’.
I twist the faucet just a bit.
A bit more.
A bit more.
A teensy bit more.
A nearly imperceptable amount more.
A tad more.
Aaaaaand a biiiiiiiiit moooooooooooore….
WHOOSH. The sink explodes with a sudden flood of glacial water, filling the sink, soaking everything in a ten foot radius, and all but punching me in the proverbial balls.
We repeat this dance three or four more times. I twist the faucet by millimeters until the water geysers forth, completely defeating the purpose of the hot water in the first place. At about the fifth time, I lose my patience and dance around the kitchen in wretched fury, cussing gutterally and waving my hands in the air because I am Daffy Duck and this is how I respond to all of my problems.
And then I do the dishes with searing hot water and try not to die.
This is one of the many charms of our apartment, charms which include the famous undrainable shower, slugs creeping under the back door every night, surfaces and crevices that refuse to be cleaned and the spider NBA hosting home games in sinister places that can’t be reached with a broom. These are all things that have contributed to a general sort of twitchiness that Taylor and I have developed since moving in. Even the smallest issues seem gigantic and unfixable. Every new discovery is a catastrophe. Normal night-time noises, things like branches moving outside or the wind sighing past the windows, these things become car alarms of fear. “What is it? What is that noise? Did the pipes in the bathroom break? Did our door fall off its hinges? Did a raccoon get in? Did the refrigerator fall over? Gas leak? Hobo invasion? A new terrible breed of snake? Have we died? Are we dying? Is this Hell?”
And then we reason that no, we can’t be in Hell, because Hell has decent heating.
The point of this whinery is that Taylor and I have had enough. Our finances have shifted and we finally have enough to move out of Mordor and into somewhere considerably nicer. With a dishwasher. And maybe laundry. And floors with fewer blood stains.
We’re done. Finished. Kaput. G’bye, shithole! Nice knowing you! We’ll write you a postcard someday.
We’ve been haunting Craigslist and waiting for the right opportunity. Now that we’ve decided to leave, we’re not in any considerable hurry. Jumping into a deal is what got us in this mess in the first place, and we aren’t going to make the same mistake twice. At some point in the next few months, we’ll find an apartment whose price and quality converges into a single, beautiful zone of nirvana.
We will rent that zone of nirvana, and we will put our stuff in it.
And it will be good.