Time to go "home"

I hate my apartment -- yes, that would be the apartment I moved into 10 days ago . . . there, I've said it, and now, it's official. I feel bad about it, and have been trying to quash my feelings of angst and irritability, but they've welled over now, and now have a life of their own. I feel sufficiently guilty about it -- I know I should be grateful to have a roof over my head, that I managed to find a place to move into when Columbia unceremoniously kicked us out on May 31. But, but, but. . . that doesn't seem to make me feel any less impatient about wanting to find my own place, come hell or high water.

I think that is the problem -- I'm going through a nesting phase. I look for my own apartment and furniture almost everyday. I picture what my apartment is going to look like, what furniture it will have, what kinds of lamps, what paintings on the walls. And living in an old, tiny, stinky, grimy apartment in a somewhat seedy neighborhood isn't helping my intense need to have a "home," not just an apartment. I've gone through most of life, living in temporary housing, and I can't take another month and a half of it. And sitting down in front of the TV after a long day at work, only to have my extremely vociferous roommate sermonize to me about wrestling and boxing and statistics and math, and our other roommate whom he can't stand, in the middle of ordering me to get paper towels and soap has pushed me over the edge.

My solution: to obsessively trawl through Craigslist, trying to find some innocent soul to take over my sublet, and to find an apartment that I can move into as soon as I find someone to take over. To that end, I went to see one apartment today. Unfortunately, it didn't fit in with my dreams of my ideal apartment. Three more viewings have been set up over the course of the coming week, along with several emails sent to potential subletters.

Now to sit back and wait -- the most painful part of all.