TheBunnyBlog.com - June 5, 2007

Okay. Here's the sitch. I was living in New York, and now I'm living in Hollywood in a three bedroom house with my ex-boyfriend that I complain about all the time--yeah, yeah, yeah...I know--and his personal assistant JW.

Another move. My family complains. No one ever knows where I am. I don't know why I float so aimlessly. I'd like to say that I'm immigrant and Iroquois and thus have a nomadic soul coupled with an unquenchable thirst for experience, knowledge and interaction with a wide variety of other souls, but then I would sound like all the self-obsessed artists I don't like, so I'll just say that I get bored easily and call it like that.

But in the interest of full disclosure (and making a blog entry out of nothing, when I'm really not in the mood to blog--it happens) I'm going to complain about my move from NY to LA, and the ex-boyfriend who makes such wonderful blog pap fodder.

Now. The deal between me and the ex went like this:

I prepare his New York apartment for moveout. I clean/fill/sand/paint/pack his Chinatown unit, ship his personal effects out to LA, hop a plane and come home. He let's me live in his three bedroom in Hollywood in exchange for my continued role as Rudius Media creative director (not a fulltime job) and maybe I'll have to do some laundry or something. Nice ex-boyfriend. Kind ex-boyfriend. Right? Right?

Except that while I was cleaning/filling/sanding/painting/packing his Chinatown unit, he was behaving in the kind of manner which produces such accumulated filth:

I'm almost proud of him. I mean, it takes effort to be that much of a pig. I should mention the front window was smashed out--OUT, not in--only one wine glass remained intact, there were ten billion potential babies lying in rubber bags beneath my bed and the condition of the bathroom made me wonder if his penis didn't have one of the spray gun attachments on it's tip, the kind that spatter liquid in as wide a spray as is possible.

But he's feral. I know this, and I know why, so I don't know why I expected my apartment to be in good condition. C'est la vie.

The girls have taken to the move quite nicely. They like the carpeted floor of their new house, as it affords them great tug-of-war traction and makes cutting and ducking a lot easier. The front yard is fenced off, and it makes a nice little sun-filled spot they can play in.

The only problem with the new place is this:

JW's pitbull/boxer mix named Kylee, a stupid, adorable, high-energy nervous wetter with white paws--basically a brown version of Murph. Maxie adores her, but Murph--who has been spoiled rotten by her overattentive daddy--is livid about sharing her daddy with another mutt. Fucking livid. The Heeler and Miss Kylee fight for dominance all day long, snapping retardedly at each other while Maxie out-thinks both of them and manipulates them into terrible behaviors that make her seem like a dream doggie in comparison (conniving, little Velociraptor). She has never been happier.

"Hey Kylee. Do you want to chew this delicious cow femur I've placed right next to Murph's head? I bet it's scrumptious. You better hurry, Kylee, Murph looks about ready to snap it up!"

It's pretty entertaining to watch it all play out. Murph and Kylee snap, Maxie prances haughtily next to the tret box, Tucker reaps the consequences of spoiling the shit out of his Heeler and I get to snuggle with three dogs instead of two.

The only problem is the piss. Everywhere, there is piss. My brand new steam cleaner is already half broken. The soapy water goes in; the soapy water comes right back out. I think it is safe to say that Tucker can kiss his deposit goodbye. Karma's a bitch.

Posted by The Bunny at 1:27 PM