STFU

The worst thing about going on vacation is returning to your life. Even as I was running myself into the ground in Rome, I didn't spend much time considering my place in the world. The first night in Rome I could not stop thinking about my money situation, my personal life, my apartment situation, but after a dose of Tylenol PM my brain stopped. The brain was off until I got on the plane to Boston, exhausted after 15 hours of being on a boat/plane, and remembered that my apartment is in the Allston Annex of Brookline, and my neighbors suck and blare music.

As I write this, stuffed up and miserable, the bass blares from downstairs, the chords from upstairs. Apparently, my landlord wants to meet with us to talk about ending the lease early. I welcome this with open arms. I will move tomorrow if I found a good place and a large number of boxes. I am sick of not having a quiet place to return to at night, especially when I am sick and exhausted. If I want noise and music, I'll go to Avalon. My apartment is where I go for quiet and to reflect upon my days.

First up in the Return to my Life, is to find out how much money I'll have left after I pay my taxes. Second, find an apartment in a quiet, professionals-only apartment in the neighborhood I'm in now and move there with Roommate Deb. Third, figure out which magazine to submit my once-rejected story to. Fourth, figure out my personal life. Fifth, beer.