Each month, Sloane’s funny frankness echoes the experiences of young people and their choices.
I feel almost as crazy as Sarah Palin’s Republican National Convention acceptance speech.
The last month has been a whirlwind of phone calls, sprints across a new campus, vet bills, car troubles and a lot of comfort food.
First off, this summer I subleased my apartment to a lesbian cake baker for $100 less than the actual price of the rent. I also threw in a free T.V. and scrubbed my bathroom for a good four hours before she moved in. The bills at my old apartment (or Satan’s abode, as I like to call it) were all in my name.
So what do I come to find at the end of summer? She had not paid a single utility or cable bill for four months. I figured it was a simple mistake on her end, but no, oh no, that pastry-loving freeloader told me she refused to pay her portion of the bills. She also decided that she would never pick up my phone calls, refused to give me her father’s phone number and had the gall to call me a money-hungry liar. Money hungry yes; liar…well, only when necessary.
So at the start of this month I’m already out about $700 when Grover, my sweet little kitten, gets deathly ill. He can’t walk straight; he can’t find his litter box; he can’t eat, or drink; all he can do is sleep all day. Paul and I take him to the emergency vet and they diagnose him with a laundry list of diseases that would make the CDC weep. Finally, after a month long decline, our vet tells us that the only thing we can do is put Grover to sleep. Grover passed away three weeks ago and I still can’t hold back tears when I think about his sad, short life.
And did I mention how much it costs to take care of a sick pet? Let’s put it this way: If I ever see that assface baker who owes me $700, I will drag her to the bank by her scrunchie, force her to withdraw all the money she owes me, cram it down her throat and remove it through her belly button. I am seriously broke right now.
But there is always a silver lining on a cloud made of poop. I started school at Florida International University and for the first time I’m actually taking classes. I had no idea restoration literature could be so riveting! Seriously.
I’m sure anyone that goes to FIU has had their share of problems (lost documents, dropped classes, what have you) but I love it there. There’s just one major difference between college in Miami and college anywhere else in the continental US: the epidemic of wearing high heels to a 10 a.m. class. I can barely brush my teeth that early in the morning. Next to all these beautifully groomed Latinas I feel like a bush woman when I walk into class. I may as well stick a Brontosaurus bone in my hair.
Even with all the drama and sleepless nights wondering how I’m going to come up with money to pay all my bills, I’m still loving being back in the M.I.A. Riding the Metro Mover has quickly become one of my favorite activities. I’ve even invented a little game called “Rate My Bum.” (Side note to my British readers: I don’t mean “Rate My Butt”; I actually rate homeless people.)
This might sound a little cruel, but I’ve come up with a mathematical equation to determine whether or not my safety is at risk with this simple math equation: number of sane people on the Metro Mover divided by number of times homeless man that smells of cabbage screams “32! 32 wins!” multiplied by the number of blocks I have to walk until my destination. If that number is over 30, I get off on the next stop and wait for another train. Otherwise, I bring my Bingo card and a paint pen and hope that crazy homeless man calls my lucky number.
But I do feel lucky amidst all this crappiness that has rained down over me in the past few weeks. I’m lucky that I have this column as a public outlet for all the frustrations and hopes I have about my life.
It’s a tremendous help to look back over the days that make up my weeks that make up my life. I take these back steps and misfires to plan ahead. I learned never to go into business with pastry chefs. I learned that modern medicine and love cannot always heal those who are sick. I learned that bums will always try to take your doggie bag on the metro mover.
I also learned that moving schools as much as I have (four schools in four years) is not as embarrassing as I thought it would be. I don’t suggest that everyone should take an academic tour of every college under the Florida Pre-Paid plan, but it takes a chance to find your place. So what if my first business venture failed? I thought I would be a savvy landlord, but the stars just didn’t align in my favor. I took a chance on a homeless kitten who just wanted a comfy bed and sunny window to spend his days in. It was a tragedy that his life was so short, but at least he died in my arms, warm and happy for the love Paul and I gave him instead of in a cage alone and unwanted.
I think fate will soon take me in its arms and give me a comfy bed to metaphorically lie in. So OK, maybe this month has been a bit topsy-turvy but there’s always tomorrow, a new day, a fresh morning—and we’re all lucky to have that.
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