I am so done with 2012. What a wretched year it was.
Last winter, I was living in the parlor floor of a nineteenth-century walk-up on Bleecker Street with thirteen-foot ceilings and two fireplaces and a tarp deck that stretched out like a backyard, with pottery planters of ferns and geraniums and a wood fence around it. Despite all the chipped paint and disrepair that approximated charm in the floor-through apartment, I would have been happy if the previous tenant, from whom I was subletting, had not turned into a stalker. From time to time, and I never knew when, she would buzz and bang on the door and finally barge in, using a spare key she kept, and yell epithets at me for twenty minutes at a time, for no apparent reason. I have boyfriends who have caught me in very compromised situations, and none has ever called me “a disgusting little whore,” which is the kind of thing this woman would scream in a variety of less appetizing ways, on and on. When I explained, calmly, because I have been told that is the best way to deal with a hysteric, that trespassing is against the law and she needed to leave, she would just harrumph, “You and your law!”