Ba dum bum

I checked out an apartment today. It is literally two blocks from my place of business. Kind of on the high end of my price range at $675, but could be worth it based on location alone. A little uncertain about safety. I know that moving into the city entails more crime and more money for less, so I just wanted to get out there and start seeing what I can get for what I can afford. The one I saw today is definitely on my radar.
I've decided other than stomping the roaches out as they appear, the only other option I have that's going to make me feel better is to start the process of getting the H up out of there.
So. If any of you few trusty readers (literally, I think there's one of you that doesn't work with me and isn't T's mom) knows of apartments/rentals in the $600 range, let me know. I'm looking to move by October 1, but sooner if I can wriggle out of my lease with constant complaints about the constant flow of roaches that are now making their way through my apartment to their untimely deaths.

Conversation In A Breezeway

"They got some king-size roaches around here."

"Yeah, I know. They even hang out in my apartment!"

Guess which was me? And which was yet another odd lady that lives upstairs? Some things change, some things don't. The roaches are after me. In abundance. And I still hate them.

Life Is Hard

Regardless of where your troubles fall on the spectrum of standard to tragic, from mundane to horrific, life is hard. We only get what we're handed. I sometimes feel ridiculous being so upset about the things that have happened to me, both now and in the past, when I compare them to the things that people I know have been through. I feel stupid crying about my love lost, my fear of being alone, my resentment of my mother. I get annoyed with myself for succumbing to the pain of heartbreak and the insecurity of not having many friends. I remind myself how much worse it could be. I don't live in a war-torn country. I haven't been abused or discriminated against. I have a job. I have a place to live. I have a dog. I have the things that I need to live. My problems are pretty cushy problems to have. I get embarrassed when I think about going to a therapist and complaining about these very middle class issues.
But.
I'm reading Eat, Pray, Love right now. The author, Liz Gilbert, actually addresses exactly this issue fairly early in the book. She describes a conversation with a therapist friend who has signed up to work with refugees. The therapist friend explains to her that even with all of things that these people have seen and experienced, when she finally meets with them, they all want to talk about their love lives. Their broken hearts.
And so. I guess that is the common thread among us. We are all like this. Life is hard. Love is hard. Loving someone is hard. It doesn't always work out the way that you thought it would.
I try to remind myself of this. I'm also trying to maintain some clarity and self-awareness as I go through this time in my life, so that I don't lose sight of the fact that I've still got it okay, even if my whole life is going a different way than I'd anticipated.
Additionally, so this won't seem so cryptic, my Tony and I are no more. Six years is a long time, and I feel like I'm starting my life all over again. So. Here we go.