Apartment hunting has brought out my inner serial killer.

It's almost as if looking down quiet, tree-lined streets evokes a sense of mechicanical killing behind my sweet, big eyes--the thought of me, single-handedly taking "the perfect apartment" away from that one pair of roommates who are not able to pick up the phone fast enough to call or type fast enough to confirm an appointment over email. There is a sense of calucated demise. There is a sense of peace that comes with securing the find, of stealing the floor from under their feet and securing bragging rights on the new digs du jour. "Mine, mine, mine, mine!" I scream in sadastic vein, because I was the one who made all the right moves to make my new apartment possible--I was the one stepping, screaming, biting my way to the perfect garage deck that will soon stake my perfect chair in the sun. I am the one who finally won out!

To achieve this point of elation, one must have started with hesitation. I have hesitiated before on making the kill, hestiated at the sight of exposed brick even when there was no warranted hesitation. A seasoned apartment slasher can not afford such careless, hesitant survellence. Hestiated survellence only is warranted in a situation where bidding is involved, not simply scoping a new place. Spoliers come in the form of current tenants who lead you to believe your prey is destined to be your's--only to ultimately revealer another lease-lecher is scouting the same digs and they discovered it's trail first. Then there's the notion of wanting what you can't have, which in this case isn't limited to disfunctional men or a $600 handbag from Barney's. It's the prospect that your perfect prey--the prey that would dicate your emotional, mental and physical rational for the next year--had just slipped from grip. Will you ever find one as debanure?

I eventually did, today of all days, in the furance-fused sun of Roscoe Village. Like a seasoned seriel killer (I have been practicing for exactely one week today), I wound down from my bartend shift last night by calucating my next hunting trail the following day. Scrolling through the names of all those ellict ...listings.... in the middle of the night just made me tingle.

I calculated my rounds.

I surveyed pictures, phone numbers.

My, what a nice floor you have ...

In the morning it was coffee as usual at Dunkin Donuts and phone call to my brokers. Then, the kill. Peak properties. It shown like a diamond in sand. I never divulge details of my lease lashings, but I will tell you, it was quick and painless. There was no mess involved, no sloppy wranglings of hunter just beginning to season his craft--there was me, on top and alone, and I garage deck that is calling my name.

I heard the hestiant ones--the ones left behind by this apartment's demise, were upset about the steal. They were bugging my broker, asking her, "Why? Why? What did we do to deserve this?" I have the satisfaction of sitting in a cool space and reveling in my moment, barely even giving them a second guess. What's done is done. I doubt they will ever cross my mind again.