Bitch from Hell: a genetic disorder or a temporary illness?

A lot has been happening, I haven’t had a chance to type more than a few short passages on my iphone with thumbs. That is irritating with the typos and autocorrect. (Hell which is a word I like to use often being corrected to “he’ll”, why can’t it learn that I need to use “hell” to emphasize certain hardships in my life?)

Was text fighting with my roommate. She has turned into the bitch from hell, (he’ll), and I tried, really, but it isn’t working. She never cleaned her space up after her ex left. Actually, when a girl breaks up with her boyfriend of a year who was addicted to wippits and emotionally abusive it is probably better to just tuen away and find something else for living arrangements. But I was desperate and as usual low on cash, so I thought sharing would be find. And location is ideal. Right by College St and Telegraph St. CLose to Berkeley campus, which is half annoying not being a student and over the big school party scene, but half great with the studious yet hard-working students, it reminds me of my school. I like the energy. And then I’m right smack in the middle of three BART stations. I just realized how close to the Rockridge station I was, after a long walk looking for new available rentals (expensive area, but all of the best in the Bay is, and just that much more in the city). So I was walking down College, past the cafes, and laundromats, ice cream parlors, and the fashionable people with their miniature dogs and their giant sunglasses and coffee mugs.
I walked and walked and my boots were squeezing my toes so it was a little uncomfortable at the very base of my body, and yet also uncomfortable at the clear top with all of the dirty, negative thinking threatening to plague and crowd my otherwise exhilarated outlook on life (I am in the Bay again after all, and it’s summer in the Bay while newly autumn everywhere else)…my biggest ache was my shoulders. They are hunching and heavy from heavy bags. Back in school I have a camera, and books, and often notes and a laptop to lug around. Now I’m at a coffee shop using ithe free wisfi and this is my favorite one in all of the bay so far because I’m sitting next to a movie producer, and there are students, smart students, and stylish ones, and curious old people munching on croissants and sipping chai. There’s jazz, rock, and bossa nova on the overhead speakers. Colorful paintings on the wall. My debit card, though empty, is still working for some reason. So I ordered a toasted bagel with sprouts and cream cheese, and a latte.
And in a daze it took me awhile to feel situated. I’m eavesdropping, and then thinking about my nasty roommate’s problems. She probably isn’t always a bitch. I haven’t known her long enough to say. But I have been in flight mode for so long I just want to fly away from this negativity. This fight over broken plates. This projection and disrespect. She moved my litter box into my “room space”. She’s moved to the kitchen of our little shared hole and now says it’s off limits. Well what am I even trying to express. I don’t really want to go into it all, arguing my side and why she’s a crazy bitch and I have indeed tried to be reasonable. There’s just the images of things. The piles of dirty clothes. The ex boyfriend’s crap piled in the middle of the room. The cavernous damp feel. The towel that never dries in the damp, dark room. So I leave, with my big coat on thinking winter and dark thoughts. And outside in the east bay, by Willard Park, there is sunshine, more dogs on leashes, tennis players, Cal students on bikes with flower baskets and golden bear sweatshirts.
I remove my big coat and re-evaulate the day, consume some sunshine, and feel more alive.
Then once in the city it’s usually time for the coat again. It’s windy, and the air is electric. I have class two days a week. But I have to work all the time, and now I’m looking for a new place, even though I like being right smack in the middle of three Bart stations. But there is the Rockridge area, on the border of Oakland and Berkeley. And there is Nob Hill in the city. So many Craigslist ads. I answer one and then copy and paste the answer a million times. I have a sweet cat. I like movies and music (imagine) and cleanliness and respect. Yes, I actually like these things, and I want a dog, preferably a golden retriever. I also am 27, in grad school, I moved recently from Portland via a summer stint in NY/NJ, and I like to read all the time.
I said more and less depending on the person, copied and pasted to similar informative or less informative, inviting or less inviting ads. I’m learning which are spam and which are legitimate. If the reply has something to do with moving to another country and needing a credit check and all of your information, or if a mother is replying for a daughter, then it is usually a scam.

But anyway back to the BART. What better excuse (so much better than smoking break) to sit in a corner and stare off into space lost in thought.
Some people have cars, and the fasttrack, city tolls, and parking fees. Some have bikes. I currently have my feet and BART and while I wait, sometimes up to 20 minutes, for my train to arrive, I can sit and play scrabble on my phone, or read a book, or just sit and stare of into space and think my thoughts. This is my favorite time, along with the walk there and the walk back, and they are all involving doing things and going places. There is a sense of arrival and departure and meaning to this contemplation, which seems to make it more relatable to this busy moving world, yet much better than bikram yoga, here are sprinkles of peace in each day.
On Bart from Rockridge to Montgomery yesterday, more text fights. I can’t escape the immaturity of teen angst. It creeps into different aspects of my life, the more I try to grow up and disappear from the drama, it still raises its nasty head and grins diabolically, like the clown in IT, “here I am, to again attempt to fuck up your life” but I am a step ahead, because I dont care much anymore. Sure my shit is everywhere, some at my house, some still on the farm. I don’t know where I’m living in a week. But it is sunny and I’m in California. And if I’m not in the East Village, the East Bay is the next best thing, right?
Such a long commute walking, training and bussing, but pacifying.
A mom and three little Latina girls across from me on the Bart are wearing pink polka dot fleeces. One is a ball of love hugging and squeezing and kissing her sisters to excess.
I’m caught up in my thoughts and watching these kids, I must look funny. I always thinking someone must be observing me the way that I’m observing them. But maybe that’s just paranoia or wishful thinking, I’m not sure which.

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