On Death and Moving

Hello, everybody! So sorry for neglecting you, please don’t break up with me.

I have, actually, been verrrry busy. Very busy and without access to a computer that isn’t monitored by The Man. Well, I mean I have access to this, my computer, obviously, but if I am not at work I am very sleepy. Yet, I do not sleep. Why? Because I am a kook.

In other news, I had to go to a funeral today. It was…and I’m not being a punk…a little sad. Catholic funerals are usually all: “Yes, dead person is dead but now they are in heaven and let’s have a big party because dead person is having a way better time with Jesus and the other dead people than they ever had down here with you. So, pray, sniffle, sniffle, be happy for them, the end.”

This funeral, at a different religion's church was a little: “Dead person is dead, dead, dead. You will never see her again because she is dead. She suffered and now she is dead. Afterlife yes, but she is dead, dead, dead. She used to be dying, now she is dead. And before that she was suffering and she had cancer and in case you forgot she is dead and you should be very sad and grieve-y and she is dead and gone and dead and gone. Be sad. True, Jesus is around and she’s hanging out with him…but, in case you forgot. She is dead. Dead. But, bright side, you’ll be dead eventually, too.”

Not that I was looking for a party, but it was kind of a downer which is disappointing because the lady whose funeral it was really liked a good time and, I think, would have been a smidge let down by the lack of Yay, Heaven and the plethora of Dead, Dead, Dead.

In other, happier news, I move tomorrow! Yay, yay, and then more yay, please.

So, I move this weekend, I’m off to the Derby next weekend, then I’m off to the beach the next next weekend so I’m sure I will have many fun stories with which to entertain y’all because I seem to be developing something that closely resembles a life. Maybe.

So

Did you know that I am very sleepy? Well, I am. Full of sleep. That is me.

But I am updating this nonsensical thing because I am too full of guilt not to. Catholic school does strange things to you, and not in a good way (but not in that pervert way either...ew). Let's see, I'm bored here. What can I have you do. Hmmm...survey?

Did you know that it takes a fucking year to download the 22 pages that contain the 2 pages of tax forms I need?

Did you know that my gray pants have disappeared?

Did you know that a yardstick just now fell on my foot?

Did you know that something ELSE is wrong with my car?

If the man next to you on the metro refused to stand up when you said "excuse me" because he's getting off at the same stop as you and thereby saw no reason for you to be allowed out of your seat would you:

a. pout like an overgrown passive aggressive baby
b. elbow man in belly
c. both

If Jeopardy was cancelled, would you care? Explain

True or false:
I've fallen asleep the last 8 nights running on my parents couch.
I've gotten a rock in my Target shoes every single time I've worn them.
American What not to Wear is better than the British version.
I'm quickly running out of things to write.
My back hurts.

Which item from the following list are you least likely to buy the next time you leave your house:

Febreze
Downy ball
Music CD
Shawl
Shrug
Seisel rug

Who is cuter?

That kid or the other kid (Please exclude your own biological children from this question)

Who is uglier?

That other other kid or this one right here (See above)

Are you sleepy?

Do you have anything to contribute to the back pain discussion other than Pilates, walking, and milk? Please describe. Omit any references to the dangers of triple doses of Advil.

That's It. I'm Going to Live with the Monkeys

Well, not so much with the monkeys as directly across the street from them. I found me some new digs. And just in time too as these parents of mine are getting the fuck out of here post haste and there will be no place for me to lay my weary head. Or my back. And you know that bitch needs a place to lay down. Lie down. Lay down. I don't fucking know and I have an English degree...sad news, no?

Anyway, my apartment search was surprisingly brief. I'm taking the apartment in the second building I saw. Why? Because the people there are normal. You know who is not normal? Keep reading.

I was looking at apartments online and I found the building I wanted to live in. I loved it to bits and kibbles for the pure and simple reason that it has arches in every apartment. Yay, arches! But, the day I started looking there was no one at that building to show me anything so I looked next door (eh) and across the street (my new home).

I admit, I was almost ready to sign right up for an apartment I saw in the eh building. It was the only apartment in the building with character even though it was too expensive for me and the guy was Mr. Jokey-Seller-Guy and that never works well with me. You can be funny, but don't be jokey.

Smarty that I am, I didn't sign anything and I was on my way home when I saw that the building across the street had an apartment available sign so I went in, got the manager to show it to me and had a moment. I just sort of knew that this was the place for me. I got an application and left, still expecting to see the home of my dreams the next day.

Next day, I meet up with the lady who leases the building I want and of COURSE she is a complete nutbag. she shows me the apartment and I literally am not in there thirty seconds when she starts pressuring me to put down a deposit. If not a deposit, why not an application fee. How about an application fee and $100 to hold the apartment? Huh? Why not? You won't do any better for the price. Huh? Huh?

Seriously, if this had been a drug deal, she would have been the worst undercover cop in history.

I can't really even see the apartment because she has filled it up with her words and I can't see through them. Unfortunately, she also leases basically all of the other buildings I want to look at so we go on a little tour...in her car.

On the front seat of her car were the following things:

A Bible
A tupperware water bottle filled with I swear to god a blended pizza.
A calzone

She does not move these things. I move them. Ew.

Some of the things she says to me while driving are:

"A librarian, huh? That is something that I just would never ever want to do."
"What I really am is a musician. But I was actually asked to do this job, Erin. Can you imagine, Erin? Someone asks you to work for them, Erin? Well, if it'll save me money on my rent, Erin, then, Erin, I guess I'll do it, Erin."

Every sentence not insulting my chosen profession includes at a minimum, one instance of my name. I now hate my name. She killed it. It's dead.

So, of course I like all the apartments she shows me, but I'm just not sure and so I take my application and leave. She for some reason thinks I will be returning the next day with that application, as well as with a $500 deposit. Crazy lady, you need to listen when I say I will apply and that is all. And then you need to shut the FUCK up. OK? Perfect.

She is a total scammer, I think. She tells me how to work around the income requirement ("Include your bonus, commissions, etc." Yes, librarians live off their commissions) and all this other shit which I just kind of think she should not be doing.

But, unfortunately, I do love the last apartment she showed me. I mean love love love, that kind of love. I could have gotten pre-engaged to that apartment. But! It is too pricey. The apartment I am now getting and the apartment I originally saw online are the only two in the running when I leave her.

Next day, she leaves me two messages, and two hangup calls. Caller i.d., crazy lady, is not your friend. She leaves these messages by 10:30 am. I put her off and convince the ever brilliant Giulia to look at both apartments with me on Tuesday.

The plan: Giulia distracts crazy lady with billions of questions while I look at the apartment. Plan works, the apartment is too small. I'm still not sure though, and give her $40 to run my credit. You know how much it cost to run my credit for my new home? $20. Exactly.

I can't get in to show Giulia the apartment I'm now getting but basically I talk it out with her, and decide I definitely want it. It's bigger, it's on a more convenient side of the street, and the kitchen is bigger, if not as nice. But is it really nice kitchen if you cannot stand in front of your oven to open it? I'm not convinced. Also, crazy lady basically tells Giulia that I'm difficult and makes fun of me for wanting to think about it and for using email. Bitch.

So, I email her, tell her I don't want the place and now she is basically holding my $40 ransom. I have to go get it from her, she won't leave it at the desk or mail it to me. Apparently no one will ever be at the desk again, despite the selling point that all buildings have 24 hour desk service. I know she's lying and making it difficult for me to get it back, and I just don't fucking care. When she told me I could have it back she also said she had another apartment to show me. I answered that just the dollars would do, and now she is jerking me around. But! She cannot have my $40. I will get it back and then I will live happily ever after in my new-bigger- not- as-nice-but-cheaper-although-fewer-utilities-are-included-but-there's-more-parking-on-that-street apartment. Which has windows! Out of which you see grass! Out of her apartment you saw bricks.

So, in conclusion. Crazy lady? She can basically just bite it and that'll be enough, ok? Perfect.

Hello Again

So, did you miss me? Of course you didn’t because nobody even reads this fucking thing! Well, except for those of you who do. Just ignore that last part, you two.

I’ve been very busy and important in the working world doing working things and taking trains and buses and cars and commuting every which way I can find. And don’t forget the walking. I walk walk walk like a bizarre little bunny that walks instead of hops.

I’m not going to write too much about the job here. This IS the Internet and all and the last thing I need is to get my flimsy enfeebled identity stolen. My poor identity. It has no money. It would like some. I also don’t want to get my ass fired. Or the rest of me, either.

My feelings about work are so uneven right now anyway, I really don’t know what I could say. Except that I can say I am in a smidge over my head since I was in CHARGE of the whole operation for two days this week. People, don’t put me in charge! I’m a little minnow. I canNOT be in charge yet, ok? Maybe next week.

My return to the world of working has, as I mentioned, returned me to the world of commuting and there are some people there that I feel the need to communicate with. So, I decided to shamelessly copy myself and catch up, once again, on my correspondence.

Here we go:

Dear girl with the pink checkered suit,

Look. I know it’s difficult. Clothes are tough fucking stuff sometimes, but honey, that suit does not fit you. It is too small. And this is not a dig at your size which I think is completely normal. This is a complaint about fit. Your clothes have to fit you, and this is why. For some reason, whether you (and by you I mean every person in the history of ever who has worn clothes) wear clothes that are too big or too small, you look super fat. Unfair? Of course it is. Even if you aren’t anywhere near fat, too big or too small clothes are your enemy, got it? Watch What Not to Wear, British or American version, and figure it out! You don’t have to look fantastic, but you absolutely canNOT look like that again, hear me? And stop talking so loud, that’s just fucking annoying and you need to stop it.

Hugs,
e

Dear girl blatantly hitting on the guy who is only taking the train with you because he interns with you,

It’s not going to happen for you, lovey. No reason why it shouldn’t from what I saw, but it isn’t. He’s not going for it and you too need to stop talking so fucking loud. Could be at least part of the reason why it REALLY is not going to happen. Sorry.

Cheers,
e

Dear guy blatantly hitting on the girl I think might like you back,

Here’s why it’s not going to happen for you. She, I suspect, is like me. You have to fucking say it right out loud if you like her, because she likes you but is oblivious to the fact that you like her. If she is like me, you need to poke her on the shoulder and say, “Hey Stupid, I like you. Pick up on the signs already, fool!” Only nicer. It’s a block many, if not most, girls have that guys for some reason remain oblivious to. Not all girls are playing with you, most have been so screwed over by their official “Boyfriend Who Damaged Me” that they are hesitant to believe a cute boy is shining their cuteness on them. This is why I will always be alone. If you like her, ask her the fuck out, because I guarantee you she wants to go.

After you go out and smooch and other stuff and get married, ask her where she got that bag because it is really cute and I must have it.

Ciao for now,
e

Dear cell phone lady on my bus,

You can be loud on your cell phone. You can take up three seats with all your shit. You can wear shoes that are that fucking ugly. What you cannot do? Is all of those things at once.

I’m tripping you on Tuesday,
e

Dear touchy-feely calling each other not baby but babes couple,

Stop it. Go away. Get out. Be quiet. Shut up. Leave. Don’t do that. Stop. Don’t. Do Not Do That. Ew. Shut up. Get out Get Out GET OUT. Where is your fucking stop, already!

I hope your head pops off,
e

Dear old lady who spent the entire bus ride digging her pointy fucking elbows into my stomach the whole way home on Thursday,

You and me? We’re fighting. And yes, you better move over there and yes I did give you that look on purpose and yes, I was blatantly moving away from you in a flagrant breach of bus etiquette so you would get my fucking point that elbows to the gut are unnecessary and a sign of low upbringing. Ha! That’s right, upbringing!!! Take that, old lady!

Please don’t read this and then die right away, I have enough problems,
e