I did call my mom, and made arrangements for her to come get me, but everything seemed all wrong.  Or so that was my excuse, anyway.  I mean, it did seem all wrong, but of course it would… to me.

And so I am still here.  It feels neither wrong nor right that I am.

The new place is small and cold and we’re always a step away from being homeless… Payment is due each Friday, and if you don’t have the money, then you’re fucked.  I guess that instead of complaining about it, I should feel lucky to have a roof over my head.  Many people would find this to be the lap of luxury, and indeed it does provide everything we need or could even really want in terms of shelter — we have internet and cable television, and the Coke machine is a short elevator ride away.

I guess I am just blue from selling our things.  I’ve cried quite a bit because they aren’t really just “things”… each item I’ve sold so far is representative of a dream, or of the larger “happily ever after” dream.  None of it was “just stuff” or meaningless in the least.  We had a blueprint for the life we wanted, and we lived in the perfect (for us) house that we were working on filling with the perfect (for us) stuff… all bargain buys, some from pawn shops and some from garage sales… We took things that were falling apart, that no one else wanted, and made them our own.  And somehow, everything went so incredibly awry.

Fuck.

I had intended to write here about a question from a Myspace survey: “Are you high maintenance?”  But instead, I am going to take a nap.