I should be starting a 10-page paper right now, but I'm not because I wanted to write here. I usually write in MS Word so I can spell-check, but I'm actually writing in the Diaryland "Add Entry" box now, which I haven't done since this page's inception in 2003.

2003! Almost three years, people!

No, this is not going to be a retrospective. I'm thankfully quite wrapped up in the present these days.

Since last we spoke, I've been cast in both of the shows I referenced in my last entry. I've also been diligently searching for affordable apartments in San Francisco for about a month, solid. See, I currently live in a house which, while it is beautiful, is at the end of a bus line which stops running at 10:30 PM. I want to live in the city, near 24-hour public transportation, so's I can drag my ass home when I stay out later than I intended.

I always stay out later than I originally intended.

Case in point: A couple of Fridays ago, my friend Sasha celebrated her 28th birthday at a swanky Mexican restaurant which was, if we are to measure the clout of a Mexican restaurant by the potency of its margaritas, really no more than an overpriced burrito stand, with lower quality burritos.

Anyway, I fully intended to get there early, stay for enough time to toast Sasha, and leave in time to catch the last bus to my Stepford neighborhood. My first drink contained tequila, which might have been the bug in my plan. Tequila is an alchemical miracle booze, which mysteriously multiplies like JC's loaves and fishes.

Flash forward six hours, and, after several margaritas, a slab of fudge from an after-hours chocolate shop, and an impromptu slice of pizza, I was at a friend's apartment where I decided to crash because the last bus to Stepford had long since departed.

My friend and I sat and smoked and talked until past 4 in the morning, throwing back slugs of Wild Turkey which landed in my stomach with the impact of a mushroom cloud. My gastrointestinal system felt the repercussions for days afterward.

Fuck it. Good conversation is worth the morning-after whiskey poos.

Anyway, I've been looking to move somewhere more centrally located to facilitate access to such late evenings in San Francisco. Oh, I've been looking and looking and looking. As far as housing is concerned, San Francisco is far more high-maintenance than Chicago or Boston were.

Seriously. Every day with the San Francisco Craigslist. I have sent out so many requests to so many landlords and lease holders, and have received responses from so few. The search is exhausting and stress-inducing in a totally demoralizing and humbling way.

When it comes to apartment hunting, San Francisco is a petty, high-maintenance diva who, just because she's so pretty, thinks she can get away with treating me like shit.

Fuck that. San Francisco and I are in a fight.

All of the places I've found within my price range are TOTAL DUMPS. They're ugly on the insides and the outsides, and I would never approach them at night unless I had pepper spray. Only a couple of years ago, however, I would have moved into the first place I could afford... Now, I'm starting to think I've becomd a princess, a snob, or a pussy.

Is it princessy to avoid moving in to an apartment you're afraid to approach? Is it pussyish to be scared of being mugged on the way home from the bus stop? Does it make me spoiled if I don't want my house to be ugly?

No, I guess not. I have higher standards than I used to, and I guess that's okay, but at the same time it makes me very sad to be letting go of my low-standard "make do" gypsy persona. I hope I can find a happy medium. Sometimes I think I created that gypsy just for the drama.

As of now, I have a couple of very cute apartments to choose from. Both are far from downtown San Francisco, where I work and study and rehearse. But I can afford them both. And the neighborhoods are quiet. And there's plenty of space. And I'll be by the ocean.

I'LL BE BY THE OCEAN! This has been a fantasy of mine for as long as I can remember. Originally, I fantasized about living by the mean and Army-colored Atlantic. The fantasy might materialize with me sipping coffee by the dreamy blue and turbulent Pacific. I find that very satisfying, for some reason.

Either way, I'll have a new home by the end of the week. Wow.

A lot has been happening. New shows, new homes, new classes ... the contemplation of transferring to a new school ... the budgeting of money for specific travel expenses ...

Given that the chronological distance between each of these entries has relegated their disclosures to generalities, I don't think I have anything else interesting to say.

If you're confused by something, how about you write a comment asking me to clarify, and I'll do so in the next entry?

I do miss writing here. I really would like to try writing more often. I want to write daily, just to see what comes out. But so much happens from day to day that when I sit down to journal it, I get a bit confused. I'm simple, y'see.

I have to go write that paper. It's an analysis of the developmental level of a 6-year-old I met while apartment-hunting. I almost wish the kid was retarded so that the paper could be really short.

Oh, okay, that's not how it would work. Mental Retardation is an Axis II disorder according to the DSM, and ...

I'm going to stop right now.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Oh, I'm just kidding. - 04.17.06

Snake Sake - 04.15.06

I'm not wearing any underwear! - 04.12.06

Smoke Break - 03.22.06

My Harrowing Hike from Rite Aid - 03.19.06

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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