But being asked out by one of the druggy, porn-producing neighbors, and then opening up my email to receive a naughty video-clip from him, is enough to make me want to move out. When his two roommates show up at our place later the same day, reeking of alcohol, glassy eyes oscillating like pendulums, claiming they need a place for the night, I don’t care if I have to hurl myself out of fucking Buckingham Palace. I cannot handle this. Exactly when did my life turn into a Latin rendition of Trainspotting?
Jacey is visiting her Chilean beau, and I’m holding down the apartment alone. So far, I’ve successfully ignored the knocking. A few male friends are on-call, like doctors. For further protection, I’ve got a music station emitting “Chill Out” vibes. I’ve also got several kitchen knives on the counter. And if anyone from Norway tries to enter my apartment, even just to deliver some smoked salmon, they’d better hope Argentina has some strong hospitals and some lenient fucking prisons.
|  | 
|
