Within twelve hours after arriving in New Jersey, I didn’t want to deal with anyone anymore. I just want to distance from everyone. What role do friends play in personal dramas? Do they really want to know what’s going on or do they have better things to do and worry about? They have their own problems and there’s nothing they can do about mine. So why would they want to hear about mine? Thus the distance, the trademark of my immaturity.
So the ‘rents told me there would be no problem in living in the apartment above their office so that commuting to NYU would be much easier. Suddenly they present me with the problems. Not problems, but rather what I have to do if I want to use the apartment. In the afternoons, patients sleep off anesthetics in that apartment, so I can’t be there in the afternoon. I wouldn’t have a bed. I’d have to put all my stuff in one room and get a lock for the door.
Or, in the alternative, I can use the basement apartment and they give me the key to it. No furniture, not much of a floor, they just put in a new floor but no carpeting, and this type of floor wasn’t made for the option of carpeting, it was made for carpeting. I forgot to check the plumbing, but from my overall sense of the apartment, high marks are not going to be scored there, either.
Well, if they see me fit for that apartment, fine, it’ll still beat living in their house. Which is probably exactly what they want. Keep their sphere of power and control tight. I’ll call their bluff and I’ll take the apartment.
