"UNEXPECTED FAILURE"

That's what popped up on my phone when I tried to check my email during breakfast this morning. Usually it just says "connection lost" or something equally generic--it's like it knows I'm a hot mess.

I've been off the grid because Jewboo and I have begun apartment hunting. This has meant that every waking hour is spent on the internet looking for a place to call home and then running to potential spots at a moment's notice. I'm trolling on craigslist with the frequency of a convicted sex offender and getting as disappointed as a fella who requests an Asian prostitute and ends up with a 60-year-old German lady.

"UNEXPECTED FAILURE" is the best way to encapsulate my emotions over the last week and a half.

The whole process is soul-crushing. I just feel so inadequate and poor. Did you know that kitchens are a thing of the past? I mean, the appliances are still required, but one can longer expect to have any sort of surface for placing items, mincing meats, or juilenn-ing carrots. As I prepare to leave the finest accommodations I will ever know, I'm kinda depressed by the options available to me. I mean, why did I bother getting degrees expensive schools if I'd only be able to afford to live in a cardboard box?

Of course, there are options, but being in a realationship and all, we've got to do this thing called "compromise." As I understand it, it basically means we'll have to settle in favor of having each other and only hope that the resentment doesn't break us.

That's how love works, right?

I know I'm a brat, but because this blog is my safe space (where I am vulnerable to the comments and criticisms of others), I will tell my TRUTH: I have grown accustomed to a lifestyle in which I can do laundry at my leisure and only walk 2 minutes to the subway. And yes, my desire to live in Manhattan is a bit bourgie--but I swear, it's not my fault, it's genetic. I already told you guys how, when my mom was pregnant with me and living in Brooklyn she chose a doctor who worked in Harlem Hospital? Why did she do that? Because the hospital was top-notch. I was supposed to be born on December 24, but when my mom went in for a final check-up on December 7, she hopped off the examining table and her water broke--I was ready to break free.

Guys, even as a fetus I could sense that we were in Manhattan and I wanted to make it convenient for us. My connection with this convenient, narrow, subway-filled borough runs deep. (Plus, Lord knows it would have been a shit show trying to get a cab from BK to Harlem when your black and trying to do lamaze breathing!)

But I can't give up--if I let the negative thinking ruin me, I wouldn't have ever made it to freedom, you know?

As we struggle to find a place that works within our tiny budget, we also have to battle brokers, which are like evil gnomes who want nothing more than a pound of your flesh and 15% commission. I think our mutual hatred for them is what's keeping our love so strong as we attempt to traverse this heartless city. Honestly, the process is really bringing out the addict in me. Think about it:

Finding an apartment is basically a legal, drug-free way to get a high and then come crashing down with a hangover that can only come from absinthe and cocaine. Not that I've done that, mind you, but I've been around enough unsavory characters/rich private school kids to know how the process works. Basically, you spend all day trying to track down "the stuff" (going from listing to listing, making call after call). Most of the time, the weed you wanted turned out to be oregano and the cheap whiskey is watered down, so to speak. When you finally find "the goods," you've got the dealer breathing down your neck, repeatedly assuring you that "this is legit"--which you've learned means it's probably not (it's about attraction, not promotion in this drug game). You want to play it cool, but you've got a checkbook in your pocket and want to feel like you've accomplished something, so you get ready to hand over all your savings for a chance at a great high.

Just then, another dude comes up in need of a fix. Before you can even find your pen, he hands over all of his cash and the keys to his Bentley. You officially don't exist.

Cut to you squatting in a crack den, telling yourself this is just a one-time thing.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Am I really incapable of finding a clean, safe, centrally located place to live after nearly 30 years on earth and a full-time job at a place that's not McDonald's?

I mean, the answer is yes--at least on one of those counts. But to give up on dreams hurts, especially when I feel as though so many of my dreams are being deferred (the blackting, the voiceover, the day job).

I know this is a process and millions have gone through it and lived to tell the tale; I just didn't expect this kind of failure.

(See how I tied that back in there? NAILED IT!)