of these things i fret

I sit here typing from my new apartment. A move that had me boxing things for the past month…incredulous that anybody could amass so much crap in two short years. And now these boxes sit in varying states of unpackedness, the items from within being placed either in a spot which resembles a semblance of normalcy or simply strewn about the apartment, waiting in eager anticipation for a space that it can finally call home.

But even now that the move is finally over, the worries have not yet disappeared…the haphazard placement of all my stuff being only a minor thing to weigh on my mind.

Larger, is the fact that I will be paying two rents for the upcoming month. This, my new rent, and that, my old rent. But not only will I be paying my old rent, but the newly inflated, $75 more a month rent which caused me to move in the first place. And, if that isn’t enough, an additional $100 which is being charged because, by not signing a year’s lease at the old place, I’m considered a month-to-month renter, which comes at a higher price tag…namely, $100.

I gave 37 days notice…but apparently I needed to give 60. This, despite the fact that I was only told of the hefty rent increase 67 days before my lease was up, thus giving me a whole seven days to find a new place, sign a new lease (which couldn’t even happen until a credit check was run) and then give notice.

I pleaded my case to my old property manager (who, for the record is named Debbie Brisky…a lady that I consider to be a mega-cunt) but she rudely informed me that I was no one special and didn't deserve special treatment, and that she would in no way even entertain the thought of letting me out of my lease on only 37 days notice. Simply put, I’m screwed.

But even this isn’t the largest of my worries, because in the worry department, something this mundane (and costly) isn’t enough to keep me up at night.

Rather, my biggest fear is that I didn’t scrub and vacuum the floors well enough before I moved out and inadvertently left behind a strand of hair somewhere…maybe tucked behind the toilet, or stuck in between two carpet fibers in the corner of the dining area. A hair that, upon being discovered, will be used to clone me. Not just one clone, however, but an army of clones. A verifiable community of identical me’s.

Knowing myself, however, I’m certain that all these me’s won’t be used as an army to take over the world. Because, being me, I know that a cloned army of me’s wouldn’t even scare the poorest third world country. Likewise, my genetic code won’t be used to create a super-intelligent, super-beautiful race of super-humans.

Instead, my clones will probably be used as low wage workers, which will be sorely needed in the future with the new laws preventing illegal immigrants from entering the country and performing these low paying jobs that nobody wants.

And, much like the Chinese immigrants of the 1800’s who were put to work building the railways that would lead us Easterners out West, I will probably see my clones someday constructing the monorails and mag-levs of the future, working low skilled jobs for even lower wages.

And much like the elderly who look with longing reminiscence through photos of their much younger selves, I’ll glance at all the me's from my passing car and think, ‘I used to look like that?! No wonder I hardly ever got laid.’