Play of light and shadow on a painted water tank in Griffith Park.
I’m too mentally fried to be clever today – I got the news yesterday that the building owner is going to pay me to move.
Which is good and bad.
Good because I probably do need a change, and rents are down at the moment.
Not all that down, though. At best, I’m looking at my rent to double, and normally I’d just treat myself to a tall frosty mug of ‘harden the fuck up, sissy’, but there’s that looming threat of yet another round of strikes next year.
Having a rent that is more than I can draw from unemployment could be problematic.
I’ve got a couple of months before I have to move, so right now I’m just checking out what’s available (in my price range? Not fucking much but more than I’d expected)
What’s really making me stress is the idea that I’m going to have to downsize (I currently have a two bedroom and I’ll only be able to afford a one bedroom) – and by ‘downsize’ I mean get rid of approximately half my stuff. The main problem is books. I have so many books that they’ve formed a guerilla army and are threatening to stage a coup.
Today, I just stood in the middle of the living room, looked around, felt completely overwhelmed by the enormity of what I need to do and had to have a drink.
Knowing me as well as I do, I suspect I’m going to save the ‘get me some pharmaceuticals’ freakout for when I’ve secured a new pad and actually have to move.
Tonight, I’m going to not think about any of it. I’m going to eat the last of the butternut squash from the garden and watch the stupidest comedy that I can stream off Netflix.
On top of everything else, work’s been insanely busy. Which is good, except that I’ve not had a chance to blog about how great Blogger Prom was.
Happy fucking weekend to you, too.