That's the moral of the story, kids. Recently, Adam and I came across a house for rent nearby. A house house, adorable, with two bedrooms and a humongous bonus room large enough for Adam's drums, and entertaining, and storing things, and game tables, and everything. A fantastically large backyard screaming for a barbecue and hell, even a pool if we wanted (above ground of course). The house had a charming fireplace, with the mantle I've always wanted. Tons of windows, central air, beautiful. Oh yeah, and the rent would have been almost a hundred bucks less than what we've been paying.
Would have been.
Because, apparently, according to the landlord, someone beat us to it by a hair. And they were willing to move in like that day, and we clearly could not.
So I've been an insufferable bitch for the last two days because we missed out on our chance for a house house. So I've been trying to rip it apart in my mind, you know, to ease the pain. It wasn't in the best of neighborhoods, sure. But damn, it was on a quiet, tree lined street, seven minutes closer to my work. We would have just gotten a stupid alarm system. Or at least stolen one of the stake signs from another house to use as our own. The closet space was small. Yeah, but there was a huge bonus room that could have made a massive closet to rival Mariah Carey's (not that I've seen her closet, but I imagine that it would be impossibly large and fabulous). There was no formal dining room. OK, and I've hosted exactly how many formal dinner parties? Besides, that's what aforementioned massive back yard is for. Barbecues with friends and family and whoever.
Shit. I'm running out of things. I guess the worst strike against the house is that it just didn't go to us. It isn't ours. And I have no reply to that one.