House hunting or should I say condo hunting isn't the greatest way to spend your Friday night but I'm interested in not being homeless so this will have to do.
Too small. Way too big. This has the view consisting of an alley full of dumpsters. I swear my realtor never listens to me.
"Wait this one is perfect." I squeal as I hug my realtor. It's at the bottom of my price range, two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, and the most important aspect, a beautiful view of downtown LA.
I didn't always live in LA. I was born in Sweden and lived with my mother up until I was eight. I never knew my dad because my mom said he died two weeks before I was born. The stories my mom told me never added up but I never questioned it. Then on my 8th Birthday my mom told her company is moving to Chicago, so I packed up my things and we left the next day. I was only allowed one suitcase and my backpack so all my things got left behind. Some birthday present huh? Not even a cake.
When we got to Chicago, we lived at the top of some realtor mogul's tower with a beautiful view of the skyline. I have no clue how my mom paid for this apartment but, again, I didn't question it. You never question my mother. Ever.
Life in Chi Town was great I had tons of friends, scattered with a boy friend every so often. I wasn't the queen of the school but I was well known and generally liked. But this dream life came crashing down with a call to the principal's office the day before my 8th grade graduation.
My mom had been arrested on 3 accounts, counterfeiting, treason, and murder.
That summer was the craziest experience in my life. I rarely saw my mother as you can imagine and my entire life was in the media's hands. They knew every aspect of my life and criticized me for it. They said I was in on it. They even said that I was the killer, working with my mom. I couldn't take it anymore.
I was now a child of the federal government. They shipped me to LA to start a new life. They dyed my hair and changed my last name. I lived with two foster parents and had 3 "brothers". I hated that house, but I can't think about it now.
I went to Santa Barbara High School. Life was bleak. The days of being a Swedish socialite are long gone and have been replaced by the all American no body. My Swedish accent is gone. Suppressed by the linguists' training to make me less noticeable.
That's all behind me now. I graduated in 2011 and only went to college for two years. I took photography classes and left.
Now I'm here. Signed all the right paperwork and was handed the keys. Condo paid in full in cash. Inheritance. Oh, I forgot to mention, my mom is dead now. Killed by some "patriot" in prison. I was left $1.5 million and most of it gone by now, taken away from me by my "new parents", the government. Even more of its gone now, with college and now my condo, I'm now left with $10,000. Just enough to make a haul at Ikea. The irony.
I moved in the plethora of boxes and spent the next two days setting up the furniture. I finally got to set up my baby, my Mac. A 17 inch MacBook Pro, the first thing I bought with my newfound money. I never got to open it until now. I loaded up YouTube and went to my favorite channel, ProsDONTtalkSHIT. Even though only 40 videos were uploaded like 3 years ago I still watch them over and over again. This dude went to my high school with me. Too bad I never talked to him, or anyone for that matter. I vaguely remember him at graduation and occasionally seeing him in the hallways but that's it.
I close my laptop and stare out the window to gawk at the picture perfect skyline. I go to grab my camera to start taking pictures to realize the batteries are dead. Great. They are packed away in some box I haven't unpacked yet. I really don't feel like digging through boxes to get a couple AA's. So I put on my fuzzy zebra print slippers, grab my keys with my one hand and my camera in the other and walk out my front door.
I walk next door when I hear a familiar soundtrack of gunfire and feet stomping. This guy (or girl) is playing Call of Duty. Sweet, I think I might like this one. Right as my fist is going to touch the wood door, I hear the mysterious person yell in a deepish voice ITSYERBOI. Definitely a guy, but with a strangely familiar voice. I knock on the door and the gunfire ceases I hear some rustling and the door creeps open.
The man standing in front is wearing sweatpants, a black shirt and in socks. He has brown eyes and gorgeously familiar hair. My jaw drops slightly and my eyes widen as I realize I'm staring at ProsDONTtalkSHIT, AKA Jordan Maron.