apartment pain

I found a place and gave it up. It was a little too on the outskirts, a little too expensive for no good reason, a little too little, a lot too dark. I rented it because I was afraid I wouldn’t find anything. All day realtors showed me places too teeny, too makeshift; apartments that screamed: you’re sacrificing everything for the neighborhood.

After I signed the lease I went to dinner for Mother's Day with my sweet boy Theo, and J. After Theo left, J. and I got into a conversation with a couple of slick characters who were a little high. The woman, who chewed big hunks of steak like a cow, gave me long looks with her heavy-lidded eyes and told me she was a writer. “Google me,” she dared. The guy was a lanky redhead with a not unpleasant face but a gaze like a horny eagle. He was from "Europe," he said, without being more specific. Europe and hipster-hangout, Williamsburg, apparently. They were both on the prowl.

It didn’t take long before their cryptic self-promotion got tedious -- especially after the Banksy film the night before -- so we left. When I did look them up I found that, in fact, they were a writer and a filmmaker. They reminded me that NYC is a place where you can make it if you have the confidence and determination.

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At 4am I was staring at the ceiling cursing myself for signing that lease. I don't have to act from desperation and fear. I'm going to be alright. I'll make it again in NYC like I did when I was 25. I have to have confidence and determination. At 8:15am I called and cancelled the lease and the owner was obliging. For years now I’ve been scrambling, trying to figure out how to make the right decisions without much guidance. I know I have to heed my hesitations; trust that when something doesn’t feel right, it’s not. I’m wearing a necklace right now of the word “trust” cut from a dollar bill and set in a small glass charm. I’m not going to panic; I’m not going to settle.

22 days left.