Tuesday, January 27, 2015

I’m a Friend-Realtor!

friend me on facebook for the friend-realtor?Whenever I'm in a new friendship and I go over their house for the first time, I want to see everything. The bedrooms. The spare room. The plumbing. The condition of the oven. Is the frontage suitable for possible redevelopment and rezoning? Was that light switch always broken? Woops! Sorry! I'm like a friend-realtor! Or failing that, a child protection services inspector. I'm like "I want to know where you sleep, what's in your fridge and where you jerk off in the shower."

For a long time, I never knew why being invited into somebody's home was so exciting for me, but now I get it - there's an innate sentimentality and spectacle in seeing where a person lives, especially for the first time. Where they sleep, eat, feel most comfortable and ultimately let their authentic-hairy-handed-selves out to stretch it's legs, and not the well-mannered-self that helped Ms Philopoulis with the groceries last week.

For me, the whole affair is like losing my virginity again. They invite you to come over and you're so excited by the notion that you want to come (over) right then and there. You stand outside their front door thinking, "this is different to how I imagined it." You walk in and you think to yourself, "oh my God! I'm in! Should it smell like vanilla in here?" Aaaand next thing you know, it's over. And you're like, "shouldn't that have gone longer?" But no, you're friend has to get up early for work the next morning. They invite you over another time when they don't have work, that way you have enough time to go through the entrees (foreplay), the main meal (intercourse) and dessert (gentle-sobbing), until you do it so much that you no longer need to ask where the cups are.

A person's home is their cave! An extension of their inner-selves! The wall-colour. The furniture. The pictures. These sorts of things speak volumes. A single bed? They're sleeping alone tonight! Pink walls? I'm either going to find a Barbie or gay porn under that bed. A queen bed and single? Definitely not sleeping alone! A single bed and a queen? Woa! Woa! This is getting confusing. Even a plain house is a style, because haven't you heard? Every thing's a style now! From genitaliaesque cowl-necks to 9/11 attacks, the same way that renting and not giving a shit is a style. The only problem is that rented houses always lack what paedophiles don't - a personal touch.

When I was just a tadpole, I went over this girl’s house for the first (and last) time and I was relegated to the equivalent of some light over the shirt action. We hung out in the lounge room the entire time! It felt like a prison! I caught myself thinking "fuck this! I can watch The Simpsons at my place any time! I need to know if the study gets good natural light otherwise I'm never coming over again!" Supreme agitation followed.

So if you ever catch me saying something like "I don't want to intrude," I'm lying! I love to intrude! I revere intrusion! Your business is my business! The place where slip off your gear and into something more lubricated is my next expedition! I'm the head friend-realtor of Quinn & Sons and we don't give a fuck!

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