The Yankees are trying to kill me. That's all I have to say. They are trying to make me curl up into a tiny ball under one of the blue plastic seats at the stadium and just DIE. But I forgive them. Because deep down I love them. Even if they cause me gastrointestinal distress and nervous eczema.
Tonight is my last night in my sublet-life on the Upper West. Tomorrow, after one last vacuum of the rug and dropping off the sheets at the Chinese laundry next door, I have to give Katherine her apartment (and her cat) back. I've become quite attached to both of them. If not for the photographs of Kitty's family everywhere this could be my apartment. Maybe I will hide behind the door and wait for her to come back, club her over the head and take it. Then I won't have to look for one myself. Good idea? No, disposing of the body could be tricky.
In a little more than one week I'm leaving for Africa -- I will be there through May 25. If I haven't found a permanent place to live before I leave I will a) get my deposit back from those crack-head, slow-ass decision making people at the tenant board in Sunnyside and b) shoot myself. Maybe not in that order. I canNOT live on my mother's couch for too long. I will become a murdering, marauding LUNATIC if I do. I nearly killed a Japanese tourist at Yankee Stadium today for telling me to sit down. I'm like two steps away from a breakdown as it is.
I probably should have stayed in Vegas.
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