Remember when I used to write all those lame posts about how awful my weekend or week was? Good. You don’t have to.
This weekend sucked.
My laptop died. I got stood up (and not as in the opposite of being sat down). I had to help carry a couch (the one I gave away for free). AND…I settled on an apartment, one that’s roughly the size of my left shoe. Also my right one, but that’s beside the point. Right next to the point. Like a nightstand to a bed. Right freaking beside it.
It’s Monday at work and I hand the last book in my pile to my boss and say, “Be careful. This one’s fragile.”
It may as well have been my heart.
After a weekend of frustration, my heart certainly felt as fragile as a paperback from the 1920s.
Where to start…
On my night stand sits this paper.
It’s white. 8 1/2 X 11. For all other purposes, your generic piece of paper.
But it’s not. It’s my apartment lease renewal form.
I was supposed to turn it in last week but have been procrastinating on checking the box that says “Not renewing.”
All I want to do is renew ya know? It’s like for my whole life I had one freaking purpose, and you want to know what it was? To renew. Anything that’s old, send it my way. I want to make it new! But, no.
I have to give up my apartment.
I don’t want to. That apartment is me.
It gives people lots of space. The foundation is a little unstable. It’s downtown. That’s me! I give people space! My foundation is a little unstable! I’m a downtown freaking girl!
That apartment is me.
I know people say when you love something you have to let it go. And I have. Soccer. My ex-boyfriend. That gray trench coat I couldn’t afford. I let them go like a freaking balloon at balloon release ceremony. Because apparently that’s a thing.
But if there’s one thing that I don’t want to let go of…it’s that apartment.
Do you think that’s why it’s called an apart-ment…because you are meant to move apart from it?
I just keep listening to “The Apartment Song” by Tom Petty repeatedly.
Anyhow, I found this new place to live. It’s another apartment. Two bedrooms. One co-worker.
She’s nice ya know? Really. She’s nice.
She wears cardigans. She’s got really excellent grammar skills. The kind of girl who wears chapstick. She’s really nice.
But here’s the thing.
I’m not nice.
I wear tank tops. And when I do wear cardigans, I’m passive aggressive about it the entire day. Grammar?! Not even entirely sure what that means. And let’s face it, the way I can tell which beer is mine out of the 10 sitting on the table is the bright red lipstick smeared across the top.
I’m not nice.
And ya know, I’m not a size queen. Like I don’t really care what size my bedroom is…but logistically speaking, this just won’t work.
I’ve got about 150 vinyl records and a record player that are pretty much non-negotiable. My bed on the other hand…I could be talked out of…
The truth is, I’m sort of angry with my bed. While sleeping, my laptop fell off the bed to its death.
What I’m trying to tell you is that these words are being typed from a desktop. That’s right. From atop a desk.
My laptop is dead. Funeral TBH tomorrow at 3 p.m. Keep in mind, this is not a ceremony for mourning, but really just a celebration of life.
I have a whole funeral playlist mapped out.
“Boom Clap” (the sounds I heard when she fell to the floor)
“The Deep Freeze” (to describe her screen)
“Digital Love” (it was a deep love we shared)
“The Backpack Song (for all the times she stayed in my backpack)
“The Funeral” (well…it is a funeral after all)
I am going to quit boring you with my laptop funeral playlist. Be warned, it’s going to be killer, literally, which could ultimately lead to more funerals.