The second day of apartment hunting in Denver brought out the more mature version of the temper tantrum throwing toddler in me — a.k.a. psycho bitch magee.
You know when an apartment is advertised as a "spacious, garden level" apartment? Well, that really means tiny, concrete dungeon unfit for human inhabitants. After walking into about 12 of those, I began to wonder if anybody ever moves out of an apartment that is not in a creepy basement and why basements are even allowed to be rented as living spaces for anything other than mold, spiders and albino trolls. I also had the overwhelming urge to tell all of them to shove their "garden levels" straight up their asses.
I had to make three appointments at one apartment complex because the dumbshit property manager scheduled me on the wrong day, then showed up at the wrong property. As somebody that made several appointments for interviews and photo shoots everyday as a newspaper reporter and never once fucked it up, I don't understand how hard it is to get one apartment showing appointment correct. She said she felt "really bad" about it and she had four properties she was in charge of all by herself. Well, cry me a fucking river. DO YOUR JOB! It's amazing to me how many dumbasses have decent jobs that they suck at, while people that are not pieces of shit rot in unemployment. I never actually saw that apartment because of that woman and my fear that I would breathe fire and set her head ablaze if I actually met her incompetent ass in person.
I was at the end of my rope when we walked into a high rise complex near downtown. The leasing agent was a blonde with a bit of a 'tude that I would not choose to be friends with if we met in another situation. I think I might have scared her when she asked if there was anything I didn't want in an apartment and I blurted "NO BASEMENTS!" And, when she asked where I had been looking for places, I once again blurted, "All over this DAMN town!" Her eyes widened and she said "Oooo-K" then turned her attention towards her paperwork to take note of my psychotic outburst.
We then wandered upstairs where she showed me an amazing rooftop deck...and the most expensive college dorm room I've even seen. At night, I'd drift off to sleep in my Barbie-sized bed with the inside of the stove as my pillow. Actually, I take that back because I'm pretty sure my head wouldn't fit in that stove. I don't know about you, but I really have a problem sleeping in a kitchenette.
After my eventful and craptastic second day, I sat in the hotel room and pouted all pissy until I fell asleep. When I woke up from my little nap, I was content to sign with the complex I looked at the first day in the Stapleton area East of the city. It's not exactly where I wanted to be, but it was my best option.
Then, I drank a few beers and played dress up with some of my Denver friends in celebration:
Now that I've been home for a week and a half, the stress and anxiety has set in with full force. On the Fourth of July, I was at our annual party and one of the guys came up to me and asked, "Seriously, what's wrong?! You've had a pouty face all night." It was then I realized that I pretty much want to claw my skin off. I constantly feel that at any moment I'm going to burst into hysterical sobbing and projectile vomit at the same time. It's horrible and I really, REALLY want and need some Xanex. Since getting my hands on some would either require a doctor's visit complete with lecturing on getting counseling, which I don't need, or providing a drug dealer with sexual favors, I've turned to my old friend, beer. Can't a girl get some mental peace without the calories?
I wanted and needed a drastic change to get my life back on track and I just might accidently kill myself in the process. Leaving your family and friends and everything you've ever known to pursue a double master's degree in a city where people don't even wave in appreciation when you let them cut in front of you in traffic all by yourself is really fucking scary and overwhelming no matter how old you are. And, as I start to pack up everything I own into lots of square boxes, I'll be holding it together with just a few raggety, frayed strings. The excitement of it all is still in there somewhere, but the overpowering, rocking-in-the-fetal-position mental state I'm in is sort of taking over all other emotions.
Now, if you'll excuse me, after writing that I kind of feel faint...and naturally, I need another beer.