This House Is Not A Home

Time to Move again

As an avid reader of blogs I really hate when bloggers go missing and I am not updated on what’s going on in their life. And of course…I just did that for the past month. So sorry! But a girl’s gotta live! So for now I’m back, still alive and have tons of stories to tell.

I have now successfully completed my second month in the city! *cheers* It seems both unbelievable and comfortable at the same time. The one place I am not comfortable is the place where I am paying rent. I know I’ve expressed before how this was going to be a difficult situation but as every celebrity on MTV Diaries has said; “You think you know but you have no idea.”

I openly admit that I have only child syndrome. I like to be alone when I want to be alone so please leave me alone. Simple as that. (Another symptom is Please don’t touch my stuff unless I give you permission to touch my stuff and even then I don’t really want you to touch my stuff.) So you can imagine my annoyance with being bothered every single week by this crazy woman. And no, I’m not trying to be insensitive towards people with mental disabilities; this woman honestly has a problem. In the middle of her screaming at me, she stopped for 10 minutes to show me a photo album from the 70s featuring her family, place in Miami and ex-husband who worked for a FBI. O____o

It started with common discussions such as cleaning the kitchen, paying the utilities, an increase in utilities, not cleaning the kitchen well enough, etc. Then it escalated to not leaving footprints on the kitchen floor, taking a bath rug out on the roof every single day to dry, laundering said bath rug, unplugging the internet and getting the f*** out of her house. It literally takes 5 seconds for her to yell, and while I have not raised my voice at her I have to motion and tell her to keep her distance. This has all happened over the last 3 weeks or so. Even now as I write this, I had to pause to answer a knock on the door accusing me of entering her “room” and rearranging her belongings.

Although I absolutely hate to lie, but this has become my new and hopefully effective survival tool. Tell her what she wants to hear until I can move. Talk to her as a child to defuse the situation. And to get the heck out of this house and maybe the whole neighborhood.

At the end of the day it’s not her words, or volume of her voice that bothers me. It’s not being told that I am pissing someone off, I need to get the f*** out of a place I am paying rent, or being accused of having an inferiority complex. It’s to know that after getting everything I ever dreamed of, I still have to live in a nightmare. It’s unsettling.

My next goal? MOVE. MOVE. MOVE. And hopefully it will be a place I can finally call home.

4 thoughts on “This House Is Not A Home

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