Move: The ultimate 4 letter word.
Since I was a child, and my family unexpectedly moved about 4 times in 18 months, my parents have always referred to move as a 4-letter word.
It seems that in one's college years and shortly thereafter, each year brings a new place, a new move and the reboxing of stuff. I have certainly done my share of moving: I lived in 4 different places when I went to school out of state. Since returning home I have lived in approximately 5 or 6 different residences. When I moved last time (almost 2 years ago) I vowed that I wouldn't move again until I either: (1) got married, (2) died, or (3) purchased a place of my own.
Oh how life changes things.
Here I am 2 years later. My lease ends in about a month and a half and I need a bigger place. To be fair, I want a bigger place. But practically speaking, my current studio is too small for Wes to come and live with me next summer and there's the minor issue of it being prohibited in my current lease.
So as an apartment dweller looking for a suitable apartment I'm "on the market" so to speak. And I'm finding that while the move itself makes me want to crawl under the bed and hide, it's the finding of the next apartment that is giving me panic attacks.
I think I've been living in my rent controlled little villa too long. I have now emerged and the world has passed my income by. Suddenly it seems like the only way to move beyond a studio and stay anywhere in LA is to fork over $2-300 more than I was prepared to. Well that's ok... I just won't eat or buy gas for my car any more.
More postings later when I step inside off my window ledge. (I'm kidding people, I don't even have a window... just a weird meshed in cubicle.)
Off to find a ledge,
the little devil
It seems that in one's college years and shortly thereafter, each year brings a new place, a new move and the reboxing of stuff. I have certainly done my share of moving: I lived in 4 different places when I went to school out of state. Since returning home I have lived in approximately 5 or 6 different residences. When I moved last time (almost 2 years ago) I vowed that I wouldn't move again until I either: (1) got married, (2) died, or (3) purchased a place of my own.
Oh how life changes things.
Here I am 2 years later. My lease ends in about a month and a half and I need a bigger place. To be fair, I want a bigger place. But practically speaking, my current studio is too small for Wes to come and live with me next summer and there's the minor issue of it being prohibited in my current lease.
So as an apartment dweller looking for a suitable apartment I'm "on the market" so to speak. And I'm finding that while the move itself makes me want to crawl under the bed and hide, it's the finding of the next apartment that is giving me panic attacks.
I think I've been living in my rent controlled little villa too long. I have now emerged and the world has passed my income by. Suddenly it seems like the only way to move beyond a studio and stay anywhere in LA is to fork over $2-300 more than I was prepared to. Well that's ok... I just won't eat or buy gas for my car any more.
More postings later when I step inside off my window ledge. (I'm kidding people, I don't even have a window... just a weird meshed in cubicle.)
Off to find a ledge,
the little devil
posted by littledevilworks at 3:08 PM
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