Now that I’m staying in Connecticut for two weeks, I’ve been spending a lot of time staring at my mom’s dog with intense jealousy (and a splash of resentment) over the fact that he can live without having to worry about human problems.
It’s just not fair.
As you read this post, please feel free to judge me as if I’m one of those first-world white girls with no concept of the fact that things like poverty and hunger actually exist.
Speaking of hunger/malnourishment — there is a moment in my all-time favorite television series, Ally McBeal, when Billy asks Ally, “What makes your problems so much bigger than everyone else’s?”
She responds, “They’re mine.”
In case you couldn’t already tell that I’m self-absorbed from the abundance of “I” statements in any given blog post of mine, I totally relate to Ally on this one.
The problem I’m having now is that my current apartment search is making me hate everything about New York (except for the bagels). Basically, I want my old place back. But I can’t have it back, and it’s not fair, and I hate life because it’s a bitch, and I just keep eating brownies to deal with the stress, and the whole world sucks for doing this to me!
Do you love my grammar?
Here’s why I can’t return to the awesome luxury apartment that I used to call home:
- The rent hike
- The rent hike
- Did I mention the thousand-dollar rent hike?
It’s just silly. And to think that other people can afford it! Whoever is now living at _____ and ________ in Apartment 703: I despise you.
I have been feverishly looking for deals similar to the one I had last year, but it’s proving to be impossible. The fact that I’m basically restricting my search to the same block shouldn’t matter.
A friend recently called me out on being a Manhattan snob, which I will gladly own. The thought of switching neighborhoods freaks me out enough — let alone moving to another borough. I have no interest in increasing my chances of getting mugged, raped, beaten, and/or poached.
Not sure where “poached” came from… but I’m now craving eggs Benedict.
In any case, this whole apartment-hunting situation has turned into something of a dark cloud over my daily routine. I’m having easily-triggered mental breakdowns on a frequent basis.
For example, yesterday I sneezed three times in a row. This made me want to cry as I concluded that not only was I homeless, but I was catching a cold as well. Then I realized it was just allergies.
I recalled that I had a stash of Zyrtec somewhere in my bathroom, but I couldn’t find it. Again, I almost started bawling. I was able to keep it together once I remembered that the Zyrtec was probably under the sink.
As I rummaged through my plethora of toiletries, I stumbled upon an emotional landmine. Somewhere between a tube of Queen Helene Mint Julep Mask and a half-gallon jug of cocoa butter lotion (clearly I’m a strong black, possibly pregnant woman) — I found a small box. When I looked inside, I barely recognized its contents. Then a series of bittersweet memories washed over me in a tsunami of emotion.
You might be thinking that I found some old photographs or an ex-boyfriend’s personal effects, but no.
It was a box of condoms. Half full. (Or half empty, if you’d like to come join me over here on Team Negative.)
Game over! I immediately burst into tears.
An innocent box of prophylactics probably shouldn’t have the power to single-handedly unravel me, but this one crossed the line. It served as a cruel reminder that I haven’t had sex in months —
- which in turn was a reminder that I’ve gained twenty pounds,
- which in turn was a reminder that I’m unlovable,
- which in turn was a reminder that I will die alone with nothing to show for my life other than an extensive TV-on-DVD collection and a double chin.
Did I mention the condoms were expired? “Hi Injury, I’m Insult — Mind if I join you?” I disposed of them and will not be purchasing replacements until I have a new boyfriend. And a coupon.
Anyways. After getting a decent night’s sleep and allowing the dust from the Condom Debacle of 2011 to settle, I’m feeling better. I watched Titanic, which never fails to put my life back into perspective. I have realized that my problems are miniscule and life’s not the bitch — I am! As per usual.
I have also realized that my mom’s dog doesn’t have it all that great himself. He can’t even pee until it’s convenient for someone else to escort him outside. Can you imagine? That super-uncomfortable pee-holding feeling is a normal part of his every waking moment.
Also, he’s precious — so I guess I no longer resent him.