I am happy to report that an apartment has been secured. I will not have to fashion my queen sized pillow top mattress and box spring into a makeshift bed on the top of my car. I will not have to give up any of my books. I will not have to clean pigeon poop off the balcony. Again.

Actually, that last one is not true. Because I spent an hour yesterday cleaning pigeon poop off the balcony. It seems that the fake owl is no longer scary to the little bastards. Pigeon poo is remarkably resistant to cleaning and simultaneously easy to clean. It seems that pigeon poo is a dichotomy wrapped in a paradox.

We met with my weird landlord yesterday. He asked Louie weird questions. Then we all signed a lease and french kissed on the couch. (My landlord has mad skills, yo.) And in that moment I felt like Atlas, if someone had taken the world off his shoulders and given him a two bedroom apartment in the prettiest little neighborhood in all of Los Angeles.

Louie took a picture of me laughing on the balcony and managed to capture all four of my forehead veins. Apparently, when I laugh, I look hideous. Good to know.

I don’t know how to stop the drama queening in situations like this. I don’t like taking a step and not knowing if there is solid ground to catch me. It’s just me, I guess. Thankfully I have a partner who is more than able to enforce a calm zone around me, letting my stress bubble only extend to arm’s length.