I am really bad at sitting still.
I am moving again, back to my september room in clinton hill with two really awesome girls who dye scarves in the bath tub and make me dinner too much. It has the best fire escape in brooklyn, and the deaf-mute crackhead of grand avenue infamy. It's appropriate timing given the escalating propositions of my cheap cigarette dealer who looks like a bird in man form, mr. kiwi has moved back to chicago, and I can't taste the love in the corner empanadas anymore. I love this neighborhood, but living under train tracks definitely effects my positivity when it's raining, and the kids are doing whippets outside of woodhull before school. I will miss the rice and beans that sometimes tastes like trash, the enchiladas from cholulita, and my roommate's drunken tirades and earless cat. I'm not dying, and I'm not even leaving the borough so I guess it's a little dramatic to talk about missing shit. But when lured with criminally cheap rent, one must go, right?
And what's a new apartment without the new job to go with it?
I think for as long as I am living here I will be an endless loop of searching, looking, moving, and everything will be new and different forever. I can't help it; there's too many possibilities. Being stable is boring and there's always something to fix and shake around.