That’s the response I got when I told one of my new housemates that he can my leftover pizza. He stood there with his T-shirt pouching 10-15 random Clif, Odwalla, and Nutri-grain bars that he swiped from a buddy’s office.”We’re fucking poor man. We need to get some funding.”
He’s one of three guys running a start up from the downstairs, who are a few of the 12 of us living here that includes another start-up crew that I haven’t met. They have technology, customers that aren’t paying them, and kind of a product that they aren’t quite able to articulate in a reasonable way. I suspect my rent is a little higher because I get the back upstairs bedroom complete with a private bath.
They’d rather run on high-fructose corn syrup and Diet Cokes than have someone providing the creature comforts of a meat-lover’s delight from Round Table handed to them by some random guy. Silicon Valley is alive is well.