Home, Sweet Home

Sometimes the Universe is trying to tell you something… but you’ve already put on your noise cancelling headphones.

Yesterday, I took my headphones off. And the poor Universe was hoarse from yelling at me for over a month. And a little ticked off.

Sorry, Universe. I’m listening now.

My living situation has been a clusterfuck recently. At the end of February, I applied to an apartment complex that proceeded to bounce my paperwork, I’m not kidding you, 8 times.

But I, in my stubbornness, was DETERMINED to make it work.

I was fully qualified to live there. They had a unit ready for me to move in. The leasing manager was a peach, and tried her damndest to make it happen.

But the bureaucrats in charge of the agency clearly had a grudge against my file.

I suspect I was just a liiiitle too honest in my application about my work situation. This compounded with the fact I unwisely tried to leverage ALL of my assets, including a rather anonymous deposit I get quarterly from a deceased relative whom I met before my hippocampus was developed enough to form memories.

HONESTY AND PAPERWORK

DO.

NOT.

GEL.

Which is a shame. Wouldn’t it be nice if our governmental systems took more detail as a good thing, rather than an indication of deception?

My best analogy is passing through customs as a child, and demanding to my mother’s horror that we declare every chocolate bar and accidentally smuggled fruit to the immigration officer.

Sometimes a white lie is worth a karmic smudge. 🤦

But I digress.

The big news is I’ve made a deposit on an adorable private apartment with an eagle’s view of the city, a lovely queer-presenting landlord, and a cement entryway just begging for a mural.

Which means huzzah!

No more commuting 2 hours every time I want to attend an event or see a partner!

PDX friends: let’s get coffee sometime, yeah?