When the Going Gets Tough...

When the Going Gets Tough, the tough go into denial...

What's that? No, I don't have to move! Why do you ask?

And even if, say, I were to have to move, someone else will be packing my boxes for me, correct?

That's what I thought! So, I'll just take a post-work nap, and watch some Digging for the Truth, because I find Josh Bernstein to be Semitically attractive (although his personality is super awkward sometimes) and try to make biscuits, only to realize that I ran out of baking powder a week ago, and give up, and go back to the couch.

I like the couch. (Futon, actually; a couch is one of those things I would buy if I had the money, but won't because I don't (anymore), and my future home is about to have a Special Assessment for replacing windows levied against it...[someone buy me a new coffee table, I hate my current one, and I almost bought the one I actually liked for $650.00 a while back, but didn't because I wanted to wait until I got a new place to live to make sure the dimensions would be correct, and now who's sorry they didn't shell out the six hunnit bux when they had spare sets of $600.00 to go around, huh?]) The couch is where I can watch T.V. and pretend I don't have to pack up everything and move.

It was all so different 1) when I was in college and didn't really own any "stuff" and any packing and moving I did was in the form of UPS boxes to be shipped back home, or to be carted away for summer storage at Lazybones; and 2) when I lived in a 400 square foot mini-partment in a Coral Gables guesthouse. Packing was so much easier then. Now I have four years of accumulated crap to dig through, and it sure doesn't make me happy.

I have two boxes packed.

Eighty more to go.

I'm going back to the couch to pretend someone else is going to do it for me. Like, say, my parents.

Eek!

Well, it's been a week since my last post.

Why? You ask? Well, I've been writing posts, and they've been GOBBLED UP by my Firefox that likes to STOP RESPONDING in mid-post.

So I've been frustrated and angry. And I'm taking it out on YOU, gentle reader. By not posting.

Not to mention the fact that I've been working 12 hour days on Motions in Opposition to stupid Motions trying to dismiss a brilliantly written complaint written by yours truly, while coordinating mortgages, and inspections and eating at Table 8 (Food = not great, portions too small for the $45/entree price, service lackluster.) and lounging by the turquoise waters of the Tropical Atlantic with Waspy Connecticutians, or lounging by the turquoise waters of the Lowes Hotel (they serve frozen grapes on a stick there!) with my ex-roommate and her family. (Joos.)

And also, I'm exhausted. I don't sleep anymore. It's sort of a problem. Maybe if the Jappy bitches next door didn't pick 12:30/1 a.m. to have ragin' smokers parties on the balcony, I wouldn't be so aggravated at my daily 6:18 a.m. panicked wake-up spell re: paying my impending mortgage, but they love to smoke in the wee hours of the morning and discuss cocaine and the Shelbourne, and Jimmy Choos and itchy vaginas, and... well, I'm fed UP TO HERE WITH IT.

And every time I tell them to shut the fuck up for God's sake, it's fucking one o' clock in the fucking morning, they're always like "Oh, Sorry!"

No, you're not. Don't lie to me you Scarsdale whores. I'll fucking kill you.

So... that's about where I'm at right now. Someone come pack up my HOUSE. NOW. And fill out my Condo Application. And do my work. And collect all the stupid Crap my condo. association seems to require. I need a personal assistant. Preferably in the shape of a beefy hirsuite guy named Greg or Thad or Brett. He should be charming, and engaging, and organized, showing lots of initiative, and should have a killer grin and big guns, a sympathetic, but proactive personality, and should make me laugh.

Also, an Ambien and Xanax prescription would be nice.

::grumble::