Looking for an apartment is troubling.

I’m on a couch. Tonight I will spend my eighth night on a pleather sectional in Burbank, California. I haven’t awoke with my face stuck to a cow so often since my ill-fated stint at fat camp. I mean, but really — did they expect me to leave my Hydroxy-Cut at home?

So naturally, I’m motivated to find my own spread to hang my hat. And my erotic squirrel photography. But I’m discouraged. Some of these types are not fit for roommates. I stayed for 75 minutes at the house of an aging realty lawyer with a five-inch-long soul patch. He had chosen a satanic theme for his living room, including a framed caricature of a pitbull with a throbbing penis and several horned candle holders. We talked about Ralph Lauren, Pinkberry, Russians vs. Armenians, cats and boating. He said he was hopped up on tea; I’m figuring it was some other herbal concoction.

Friday I was introduced to an aging hippie whose primary source of income was selling Beta fish from his living room. Figuring prominently among said living room’s furniture were weathered beanbags and a wooden television console. Before I could see the room, I had to wait for the current toady tenant to rouse from her bed with her shirtless, birthmarked boyfriend. It looked like his armpit hair was tonguing his nipple. I have to live with that image. I inferred that they’d be moving in together. Hopefully by splitting rent she can afford that neck she’s always wanted.

I want to move in somewhere soon, and to be honest, I could tolerate the aforementioned situations. However, my family could not. And as I’m everybody’s favorite sibling, I’d be hard-pressed to stretch excuses out for the minimum six months necessary to spare my sister(s) of an engorged canine cock or massive pink and purple bong. So try not to call me picky.