Thursday, November 27, 2008

How Am I Supposed to Feel?

     Catching up with Return to Cookie Mountain in a spartan room. Recently stripped walls and empty halls and not much else. There's also the knowledge that I'm going to be living out of a motley collection of trash and Ziploc bags for two weeks. And the unrelenting sensation that there is a swarm of insects within my mattress and that the only thing stopping them from greedily feasting on my veins is a few sheets of plastic.

     I told Connie that I didn't experience my usual post-purchase bliss after picking up some Fiorentini + Baker boots in the city. It was a bad sign. Anytime that shopping fails to evoke some sensation of joy/elation/nigh-orgasmic happiness typically indicates that something is very wrong. And I still can't quite wrap my head around the series of events that have been so very unfortunate. I'm relying upon my recent aid to a could-have-been fatal car not-quite-accident and my forbearance with this current trial as some sort of good karma orgy; that is to say, I am in the thick of so much shitty shit that the cosmos probably — indeed, must — cut me some slack in the future. I'm thinking about this whole ordeal as a sort of karmic investment.

     My Thanksgiving is not going to be a Thanksgiving. It's going to be me sitting in old clothes on an old couch in an old apartment that just won't let me go. Angry letters and lawyer threats have failed to extricate me from my landlord's grip and all I really want to do is eat an entire pizza by myself. Oh wait, I already did that.

    Nothing in the recent past has done nearly as much to convince me that I absolutely, positively must leave this place by any and means necessary. The faceplates stuck to the wall with a lazy slash of paint, the circuit breaks that break at the slightest provocation, the dishwasher that fails to wash dishes. It's like Godot designed my apartment to be the least livable space possible. It's only by sheer effort that the three of us had managed to transform this place into something even remotely resembling an apartment.

     There's nothing cathartic about this. This is why people get old. This is why people have high blood pressure. This is why people grow cynical. This is why people get into credit card debt. This is why people dream of buying, not renting. Just when you've dug to the bottom of the barrel, past the first three layers of frustration, dissatisfaction, and complete, mind-numbing anger, then you realize that there's actually a wormhole that leads to a whole parallel dimension of bullshit. Of bullshit apartments and bullshit building managers and bullshit things like bedbugs. I remember somebody telling me this was adulthood or something. Yeah, right.

     This is just bad luck.

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