Dear New York, Quit It

Gotdang, New York.

You won’t let me have not a mother-effing thing. If it’s not my career, it’s my money (or lack thereof, honestly) and now, you’ve come for the one silver lining in all of this.

My peace of mind.

My apartment.

Saving grace in all of this has been my living space. When I first was laid off, my mom was like “Welp, it’s a good thing you moved! You don’t have to come home to your roommate (sitting unshowered in her workout clothes) on the couch every time you open the door”—true story, yall. That happened. A lot.

The toilet isn’t clogging (but you do have to hold my handle). I can order Seamless without her judge-y eyes watch me thank the delivery man.

This is my home and it feels like it. It feels like me, most importantly.

I have grown up furniture and it feels like a space (not to get all Oprah on you) that is reflective of the life I want to live.

The first time I saw a mouse, I freaked the f*ck out. Where I’m from the rodents are outside, not in.

Ever since then, I would get paranoid, hearing little things that turned out to be nothing, or most recently, my new neighbor’s dog.

But then I did hear something!

Whatever it was, was rustling the plastic liner in my shower. Allan killed it with the trashcan that matches my shower curtain, natch. I heard it squeal. It sounded cute, almost, and tiny. It climbed through the drain apparently, I’ve been putting off replacing my stopper because it doesn’t drain properly and would rather take the whole thing out—clearly, I’ve stopped doing that.

When a tiny, slow moving thing came into my eyesight as I proofed my freelance pitches, I blinked hard. That couldn’t be what I saw. It was smaller than my pinky.

I could step on it or sweep it out the door, if I moved quick enough. Instead I sat there, fighting tears.

That night, I didn’t sleep. And hadn’t slept since Allan killed whatever was in my shower (I wouldn’t go look). It’s wearing on me and my peace of mind, New York.

Why must I be sufficiently embarrassed like this? The past 8 months haven’t been enough? I can’t have anything? Is that how you feel, New York?

Could you do me a favor, maybe? The next time you talk to Jesus, if you have an extra moment, could you mention me to him? I know he didn’t forget, but just let him know I’m barely hanging on here.

I can’t pray in peace. I’m scared to shut my eyes. I’m not sleeping and my 30 minute shows are now barely 10 minutes.

Come on through, Jesus. I need you.

And in case you’re wondering what my face looks like every time this happens, I’d like to point you to these photos with Cujo running loose in the background, recking shop.

Legit, like, he’s right behind me isn’t he?

Wearing: Zara Flight Jacket// J.Crew Sweater// Forever 21 Suede Shorts// American Apparel Thigh Highs// Markus Lupfer Glitter Booties// Piperlime (RIP) Necklace// Marc by Marc Jacobs Fran Tote// YSL Babydoll Lip & Cheek Stain

Yup.

Still here.

That’s how I feel about these three blind mice, New York. I’m over it. Quit it. Stop coming for my peace of mind.

Tired and cranky,

p.s I need you to know that I’m not filthy. I barely ever have any food and certainly don’t have garbage. Baby mice are losing their way (the smart, older, faster ones wouldn’t bother coming because it’s not worth it) every time MTA switches those barricades as they pretend to build the Second Avenue subway. When I was home for Mother’s Day, I did some research and found an all-natural way to seal off my apartment because Lord knows I don’t want to have to move. So far, so good.

Stay tuned…

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