�

Anyway, due to some complications with the new apartment--the dumbass landlord, who I will now refer to as Dumbass--filled out our lease wrong. Wrong apartment number. And wrong zip code. The zip code we managed to catch--however, as I'd only been to the apartment once for a total of about 3 minutes, the wrong apartment number, I didn't catch. And, wouldn't you know it, all the utilities, my voter registration, my new driver's license, EVERYTHING is registered and listed under the WRONG ADDRESS.

I've had a tight grip on my emotions since I had learned of my grandmother's impending death, but right then I could feel the walls that held everything in check begin to crack.

After getting off of the phone with Edison to try and remedy the power situation, I went down to the parking garage of the new place, and, after the ten minutes it took to get my car out of the ass parking space that's too small for it, I had a Complete Emotional Breakdown. Like, sobbing, snot-running-down-my-face, I-can't-breathe-I'm-crying-so-hard breakdown. I had to pull over twice on my way back to my depressingly empty, all-the-security-gates-actually-lock-and-I-feel-safe old apartment. I didn't even make it to my bed. I was curled up on the floor, so completely overcome with stress, worry, grief and anxiety, that I couldn't move. I was hemorrhaging tears.

I was in that lonely, desperate place that you can't even see your way out of, much less try to leave. I was so overcome that my teeth were chattering--which scared the shit out of me and sent me into a further fit of hysterics.

When I ran out of tears, I just kind of laid there, somewhat catatonic. I mean, I didn't know what to do next. Not just in the way of fixing the address situation and all of the other stuff I still have to do, but I didn't know what to do next. Change my clothes? Go to the bathroom? It was too much to handle. All I wanted was to talk to my mother, but it was late in Michigan and she'd just lost her mother--having her daughter call from 2,000 miles away in snotty, hiccupping tears wasn't something else she needed to deal with--especially when she couldn't do anything--couldn't hold me or rub my back or help me fix anything. She could only tell me in an impotent, woeful voice that everything would be okay.

I hugged a pillow and laid in the fetal position. None of the lights were on and the darkness around me was inky, if I didn't hold onto something it might've swallowed me whole.

Eventually, my best friend called. I had left her a sobbing message on her machine letting her know that I wouldn't be going out for green beer and not to worry about me (which is hysterically funny, because when someone is obviously crying and saying "don't worry about me, I'm fine!" is the biggest lie, ever--tantamount to a little kid who has chocolate smeared all over their face saying "I didn't eat the cake!"). She talked me down a little and tried to get me to let her come over, but she'd just picked her brother up from the airport for a visit and the last thing you want to do when you fly to LA for a vacation is sit in your sister's best friend's empty apartment while she snots all over your sister's shirt. I mean, that wouldn't have been awkward or anything...

I eventually managed to change into pajamas and had stopped crying for about ten minutes when Mister Zero called after I'd sent her a (probably weird, scary) text message and helped me look at things from an analytical standpoint, which seemed to help. I managed to get somewhat calm, downed a glass of cabernet and went to bed.

I woke up this morning after a fifth consecutive night of unfitful sleep (I haven't been sleeping much, and have been waking up around 5:30am since my grandmother died). My eyes were so puffy I could barely see out of them, so I pulled out the cool gel mask I'd had stashed in the fridge and laid in bed thinking about what I could do. I could go get locks for the windows of the new apartment since none of the security gates were actually secure. I could call the DMV and the state and all of the utility companies and see if I could sort out the address situation. I could choose to not worry about my job--if I'm going to get laid off, I'm going to get laid off--I can't stop that.

I could take things one at a time and deal with my myriad problems in increments, chipping away at my boulder of burden until it becomes a load I can carry.

I can try not to freak out, which is growing harder by the minute.

One more straw on the camel.