i find an unfamiliar pair of boxer-briefs floating around in the bedroom laundry. they're black with a white waistband, so when i put them on my head i look like a nun. "what's your confession?" i say. "those are my dad's," says joe.

moving sucks. we painted the bedroom a bitchin' shade of incredible hulk green last night, and the fumes in the apartment made us both so drunk that we slept through the alarm today. until late this afternoon, i thought i was going to get fired - it was the largest pr crisis i've been able to cause as a lowly peon. luckily, one of my pitches on a charity event last week got pickup in a national paper. the bowels unclenched a little.

also loving the fact that we paid someone $485 to hide our wonderful bed somewhere on the west coast. the air mattress lost its appeal like six days ago, as did constant takeout food. judd and sarah note that there's a $20 tax on walking out the door in this city, which explains why i've maxed out my credit card and have no furniture, no food.

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