My name’s Ryan, and I’m a 29-year-old human who recently traded coasts. Philly is home base for me, and yeah, I’m destroying a cheesesteak in that photo. But I’ve also backpacked throughout nine different countries in Europe over three months, and lived in Charleston, SC for a few years after that. Not sitting over here tooting my own horn, just saying I get itchy feet for new places, and San Francisco has always been a city that piqued my interest. Now that I’m here, I’m the weird, confused, new guy yet again, walking around aimlessly by myself, trying to figure out what breed of heinous monster is responsible for the city’s current housing market.
I have a job, that fun 9-5 type stuff. Right now, I’m a full-time sellout at an ad agency downtown. When I’m not busy with that rigmarole, I like to travel, write shitty tweets, watch sports and get a little disgusted at my emotional investment in them, perform some type of vigorous exercise, find new and untainted thrift/record shops, ride my bicycle, get amplified at live music events, try to find a pair of jeans that fit me and make me look cool, look at and sometimes get tattoos, play a mediocre guitar, attempt to figure out what to do with money as an adult, and sit on Craigslist for hours at a time responding to apartment postings that will probably, someday, result in my identity being stolen.
As far as roommate stuff goes, I typically like to classify myself as low-risk, high-reward. I’ve shared spaces with roommates since I was 18. That was 11 years ago. I’ve lived with some great roommates, and some really shitty ones, and I took lessons from both sides. So now, by all definitions I’m literally a first-ballot Hall of Famer roommate. No bullshit.
Get this – when I cook, there is nary a dish, pot, pan, nor even a motherfucking lightly soiled butter knife that remains in the sink for more than an hour or so, at most.
When the garbage is full, I don’t play that game where we see who can balance their pizza crust on top of the pile like some bullshit match of trash Jenga. I just take the bag out. And then put a new bag in. Because I am an adult.
I go to flea markets and shit, then come home with some tasteful ass decor that will undoubtedly improve the overall chi of our living quarters.
I legitimately have like, one, maybe two friends. Still unsure about the second guy. But whatever, the point is…you don’t have to worry about me bringing some group of blabbermouths back to the place!
I also fulfill my duty as an American patriot, and keep the refrigerator stocked with chill ass beers. You want to crush one of those beers after a long, hard day? Hell yeah you do. Well, go for it. Actually, I guess you could ask, but either way, the answer is probably yes. Just a matter of good manners at that point, really.
This shit is getting drawn out, I can tell. I’m about to go make some herbal tea and try to put my ass to bed without drifting into lucid nightmares of the Bay Area Craigslist’s “rooms for rent & shares available” forum. If you think this might be a good fit, give me a yell and I’ll come over for one of those undoubtedly awkward roommate interviews. I’ll bring some wine and Solo cups. We’ll get intimate.
@ryeino on The Instagram if you’re tryna creep (R.I.P. Lefteye)
P.S. – With all due respect, please don’t message me about some place up in the boonies. I’m sure there will be a time and a place for that suburb life, but it ain’t now, and it ain’t here. I’m trying to stay in the city of San Francisco, because truth be told, I’m already hooked on the smell of urine.
This post was originally published on San Francisco Craigslist’s “Rooms Wanted” page. It did not provide much help in my search for a home.