A Smidgen of Self-Pity

I have relinquished myself to accepting that life is breeding me for something pretty awesome.  This may sound as though I am ungrateful for my days of glory to come, on the contrary, I more than most am incredibly anticipative of how I shall overcome. The hang-up is that my day to day happenings are mimicking a poorly written sit-com. Sometimes I think Woody Allen is lurking around the corner snickering at me with a snide aside to the audience, which can't decide to laugh or groan with the permanent confused expression that comes from listening to an Allen ramble. If I ever find myself at an auction where I can have a cynical, neurotic, depressed Jew who performs verbal acrobatics narrate my life, I will wager my first born. 

This has come to me on the day that I became the recipient of a 5 year old roommate and his father into my company, or rather they received me into theirs.  Thus, the inception of my seventh residence in the past year. The transformation started with my hermitic studio apartment, to a van loaded with 1,000 lbs of treehouse, then an oddly transcendent family-client-coworker-nanny-boyfriend situation in Beverly Hills, to my first housemates in 2 years, back to another van of which there was an attempted at-home robbery, off to another three roommates, and now... 

...I am domesticated and my new dwellings come gratis with a super jealous ex-girlfriend. Freebie! I of course am simply a jobless, penniless, homeless nomad praying on the generosity of others. Whereas I do not think my pernicious doppelganger of the same name will see so clearly. Quite possibly there will be a duel hence she grabs her sword with a six fingered hand, as any modern view of a duel is based upon an 80s cult classic. For someone who has no interest in doing the death dance with personal drama it seems to find me unawares and with my pants down. 

A smug contented smile wound its way across my face today as I realized it took me a total of about three lazy hours to pack up my life. That smile turned to self-pity when I found myself dashing out of my first Seattle digs and veering out of the driveway without looking back. Could I really just detach myself so easily? Yep. It took me three months to finally take everything out of its box. Only to have to pack it up a few weeks later. I now find that the possessions I transport with me have little meaning. I no longer am anal-retentive about folding my clothes, and don't think twice about throwing them in a bag (this is big for me). Everything else is orderly however, considering that I really just have to straighten a few books to make things clean. 

Funnily enough I find the Woody Jew hilarious and have discovered much hidden jest in my discombobulated survival.