so i got a call on monday stating that the person in front of me had gotten the place, the resultant funk of which i have already articulated. wednesday i got another call: she had declined the apartment. by some miracle i seem to have passed the credit check (having NO credit, only collection notices from the thurston county library system, this baffles me) and thus the lair is mine, i guess, to be made official this sunday. i am agitated as a result. this represents an entire new fucking change in my grass-is-always-greener frantic approach to life. i am excited and disgusted at the same time. i console myself with the basic truth: my current lair, beloved as it is, is not worth the $795 they are charging as of 1 august. i fucking hate renting. i hate landlords, i hate communal hallways filled with other people's cigarettes and bad music, i hate passing drunk couples on the stairwell when i come home at 2 am wearing scrubs covered with dog hair and cat piss, i hate laying in bed listening to my neighbors fuck. that said, i love my place. i am really fucking sad to leave.
i sprawled on my floofy rug for a long while this afternoon, playing with the cats, watching the leaves alter shadows against the ceiling. i looked at my possessions and tried to remember where they all came from, what their stories were. remembered being alone in amsterdam, nauseous with loneliness and near-constant marijuana, taking everything out of my backpack and spreading it out on the bed (ah, the rainbow house hotel... lovely place) and finding great reassurance in this tangible evidence of, i guess, ME. i had carried a thing of nag champa with me, the scent of which saturated the top pocket of the bag. to this day, every time i burn that shit (about the only incense i like) i think of that era.
this is one of those days when i want to get completely fucking shitfaced drunk. i cannot have just one. there is no point to just one drink. i haven't gone to a meeting in months. i didn't like sitting around listening to people complain, mostly because their complaints were valid and i felt like a whiny imposter being there. there was definite benefit, however, to getting outside of my own turbid mind. i only realize this when there are no meetings nearby.
my mom's dad suffered fairly severe angina a few days ago. apparently he was born with 2 instead of 3 valves and one is completely useless, so the doctors are reccommending open-heart surgery. meanwhile, my grandmother is showing signs of dementia- she is 90, so she is entitled- but this whole situation is a bit stressful to contemplate as well. i am not concerned for my behalf, for i've never been very close to either of them, but i'm worried about my mother. i hate being peripheral to things i absolutely cannot control.
was it pollyanna, that cunt, who coined the term 'glad things'? or the glad game, or something. i need to focus on happy stuff for a moment.