Yesterday wasn't exactly a good day. I got a call around 10 that we didn't get the apartment we applied for, which was the perfect place in the perfect location with the perfect couch, yada yada yada. Anyway, during my phone conversation with the real estate broker, I found myself trying to frame my situation by saying:
"I should've kept looking for other places. You can't put all your eggs in one basket."
and
"I guess I shouldn't have assumed I would get the place. You can't count your chickens before they hatch."
When did I turn 50? And what's with this obsession with chickens? New York really has fucked me up.
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