Bizarrely Enough

I don’t know what the fuck happened in the last week. Magically, I stopped crying at my desk and found that work could be somewhat enjoyable. One week after that revelation and my first full week without crying, John tells me that he is ready to move out and asked if I would support his decision to find a new roommate. Fuck, even the hard-assed landlord agreed and even sounded relived at a living situation without my gay husband. She traded in conversations of legality for, parental probing, empathizing with me that living with him must have been a difficult feat. And I didn’t even tell her about the barrage of Latin men in their early 20’s coming in and out of the apartment at dawn, leaving their nightly fuck only to be replaced in a few hours with the guy who gives morning head.

But confronted with all of those problems, the issue wasn’t necessarily about the shit that all piled on top of each other. Nor the seasonal depression that took such hold of my psyche that I felt betrayed by my emotions. Or the nights drinking to find some sort of escape from the anxieties that resulted from the “real world”: work stress, relationship stress, grad apps stress.

Although my nuttiness is a yearly occurrence, this year was particularly bad as the triumvirate was in a bad place at the same time. Our collective strength diminished, each one of us in the final stage of paralysis, where it hits, holy shit what the fuck have I gotten myself into? Or in my case, why the hell did I open my big mouth and tell Professors what I really thought of them in college? Of course they talk. Hence, I’m slightly fucked for reccs at the moment, trying not to think about what they would say if they didn’t sugar coat my letter of reference.

“Shannon is obviously really smart and it showed, when she applied herself. However, since she came to a weekly class drunk on several occasions, led the class in a quasi-coup d’tat against me, and made it oh so obvious that she cut my class when her Frisbee hit the window as she played on the green, I am having difficulty making a judgment on her maturity. She is a great manipulator with her charm, wit, and low cut shirts but, much like being with a whore, only when she leaves and you are no longer caught in the moment do you see through her lame charade.”

For the last two months, as the triumvirate goes through hell at the same time, neither one of us wanted to call upon its power, knowing when you are barely scraping by do you want to hear that those you love most are about to taste their own rock bottom. I retreated inward, barely leaving my apartment except when the out of towners were visiting, tried to find solace in something but not quite achieving it, and trying to keep perspective with the cursed Woody Allen humor that plagues my people. But for some reason, things are getting better. John is moving out and grad apps will be sent out (whether I get in is another topic). Or it could also be the unusually warm weather, the sun, and counting down the days when I can once again rollerblade on the Hudson.

Please tell me if you know of anyone looking for an apt until the end of July.