So the other week, I had a bad experience with a model.
There was this girl I met on OneModelPlace; an online modelling agency I’m a member of.
Over the course of years, the overwhelming majority of the models I’ve met through that site have been flakes, unreliable and unprofessional. Ironically, a few of the best models I’ve worked with have also come from that site, but these have been a vanishingly small minority of the models who have actually agreed to work with me on a set. The usual pattern is that they will agree to work with me, we’ll exchange information, we’ll have a few e-mails and/or phone calls go back and forth between us, and I’ll get to work on a design for them. I’ll put four or five hours of work into it, they’ll tell me they’re delighted by it, and then, as we begin to work out the actual specifics of actually doing the set, they’ll disappear off the face of the earth, ceasing to respond to e-mails or phone calls. This has happened literally dozens of times, which is a large part of the reason why I’ve done one set in the past two years.
As a result, I’ve developed a pretty thick skin to this sort of unprofessional behaviour from these people. Even so, I am surprised to learn that there are still levels of unprofessionalism which are sufficient to anger me.
This means, basically, that I have two weeks to line up a new room-mate, since whoever it's going to be will have to get their crap together by the beginning of October, so they can give their land-lord notice and get their arrangements in order. Two motherfucking weeks.
After all the bullshit he's subjected me to, of all the nonsense I've had to put up with, it seems somehow appropriate that this should be how he ends our shared living arrangement. This is a man who, in these eight years, has never once taken out the recycling. This is a man who has forced me to buy the toilet paper for the appartment eight times in a row, since he simply refused to do so in spite of admitting it's his turn. This is a man who will leave bags of garbage festering in the front hall for weeks without taking them down to the dumpster, in spite of - again - admitting it was his turn.
Really, if he were considerate or thoughtfull about the manner in which he ends this arrangement, it would somehow lack poetry. At minimum, it would demonstrate a lack of follow-through which I would find distasteful. No, he's leaving on just the right note: Selfish, self-absorbed and inconsiderate. That's how I want to be able to remember our time together, and he's given me just the right means to ensure that's the case.
The practical upshot of this is that I'm in need of a room-mate. I've got a prospect, but it's shaky. It's a decent place; a block shy of Kingsway. A ten minute walk from Edmonds skytrain station. Thirteenth floor, great view. Fully furnished, with laundry facilities, a dishwasher and a fully-functioning toilet by means of which to rid yourself of unwanted bodily excretions. $450 a month, or thereabouts. Available, apparently, November motherfucking first.
Oh, where to begin?
Normally, as you may note, I don't get into my personal shit on this journal too much, but this is just too rich...
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- Dave Littler's New Deal
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