It's been a little more than a month now, and the space isn't quite "ready." My new printer/scanner (which I still can't get to work) still needs its' own desk, and the microphone The Mortician lent me still hovers above my computer, waiting for me to figure out a program that will get it to do more than record my voice. But I sent the first post-move rent check in, so I guess this is officially home. So far, so good.
The same could be said for the new living situation; the bulk of the space is taken up by the living room, where The Mortician has set up his sound system and I've set up my work-area-in-progress: the mic, the computer, the printer/scanner, and my books, photos and blank CDs. Once things get fully situated, it should be good for happy hours and such.
My new room is smaller than the one I had while living with Kev-Fu and company, but still enough to hold my usual mess; I'm good with living areas, but my room is perpetually a shambles. I've given up on fighting this particular little hypocrisy and just try to keep the debris from spearing me in the foot.
But what I like best, definitely, is the quiet. Not that I minded living with or having the company of Brother Kev-Fu, Lizzie & Shawna for the past few months, but the neighborhood we were stuck in was one level removed from New Jack City, the stench of pot and the cacophony of hopelessness always just outside the door. Sure, some of my neighbors here are noisy, too, but at least the apartment complex is set up so that they have to go almost to the end of the street to get their Springer on.
In this case, though, The Mortician's and my schedules are such that each of us gets a decent amount of solo time in the pad. Well, solo with his cat. Which means that if you're reading this, there's a decent chance I've done this at least once in the past 24 hours:
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