. . . with the apartment hunting and other piles of unbloggable angst, I've been very stressed and tired. And I don't know whether it's because I'm too worn down to fight the feeling, or because this is exactly the kind of time when even a five-minute conversation with him would make everything seem sane and doable, but I really miss my dad. I always do, of course, and accept that I always will. But right now, it's very sharp and salient.

Music for this mood: Rosanne Cash, Black Cadillac

At long last, my sister Alanna's glorious open letters will truly be open. Feast your eyes on Sideshow Rants.

than a concert by an immensely talented musician for YOU and YOUR friends, complete with open bar?

Ah, Laura Cantrell and JANE Magazine, I can't thank you enough.

(Longer, more discursive entry inevitably to follow.)

When I call you roughly 10 minutes after you post a listing and it's already gone, you don't have to follow up with a "these are going so fast, it's insane." I know that. And you don't have to make other remarks designed to put the fear in me. I've got the fucking fear, okay? You aren't doing me any favors by trying to ramp up my anxiety.

Scene: Park and 26th. I am about to cross south with a walk light. I am on the right and walking at a good, healthy city speed. As I am wont to do. A cyclist coming up the sidewalk behind me--which is totally fucking illegal; this dipshit is supposed to be on the street--almost hits me. The following exchange occurs:

Cyclist: I said "Woooo" and you walked anyway!
[Side note: "Woooo"? This is the new "on your right"? WOOO?]
Me: I walked because I have the light and this is a sidewalk.
Cyclist: I have the light too!
Me: [Walking away because he's wrong and I'm busy.]
Cyclist: [when I am across the street] Maybe if you weren't so overweight you could get out of the way! [bikes off]

End scene.

Had I been in closer proximity at the time of the insult, I might have sounded off. "If I weren't so overweight, you might have to find a more creative way to be a douchebag." Or, "If you weren't such a shit-for-brains, you might be able to fathom this crazy 'road' system they've come up with." Or I might have just been stunned and missed the opportunity to retort, as the rudeness was so unexpected, what with him being completely wrong and all. We shall never know.

So I guess the lessons are:

1. Laws don't apply to cyclists.
2. The size of my ass is everybody's business.
3. If said size does not meet general standards, I deserve to get hit by cyclists on the fucking sidewalk.

I had actually been having a pleasant day, despite the stress currently coming from every direction. I hate people.

Doesn't she just rule?

Today's stress song: "Still in Hollywood", Concrete Blonde.

Oh my my, I'm running on a wheel and I don't know, don't know, don't know whyyyy.

Today's de-stressing song: "John I Love You", Sinéad O'Connor

The lease is signed, money changed hands, and we have a new apartment!

Please, please, please, may I not have to move again for a long time. Like, not until I actually have money. This whole ordeal, with its stress, fatigue, and self-abasement (ohhhh pleeeeeease pick me! look at my credit! pleeeeease!), would always be a pain. But having enough money to be worth realtors calling me back? Would have really taken the edge off.

Jose, Terri-Ann, Mateo, Arvad, Dick, Omar, Marcia, David, different David, Av, Ariel, Thomas: these are the realtors we met in person whom I can remember off the top of my head. There were more. And there were many, many more on the phone. And by email. And . . . and . . . shudder.

Anyway. I'm immensely relieved, and the new place is nice. I'm happy. The lease having been signed, I now only have 884 things to do between now and October 15th. Keep on, keep on, keep on . . .