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And some days are rivers of wet, stinky water flowing from your busted water heater onto everything in your storage shed, and all over your bedroom carpet. Why couldn’t the damn thing hold on for 5 more weeks until we have moved out of this shit-bag apartment? Siiiiiiigh. And why were the boxes on the bottom of the stack the ones that held a bunch of my husband’s photos and all of my journals (chronicling my life from 1986 through the present)? Why didn’t we put boxes of useless things on the bottom? In fact, why were we stupid enough to store things like that outside? Oh right, because this place is entirely too small for the two of us and all of our shit and we had nowhere else to put it.

So yeah. This morning I sit in the midst of my stinky, water logged treasures with maintenance men traipsing through my apartment (one of whom is acting very annoyed that he has to be here – really dude? I’ve been without hot water and all of my shit is ruined) as I try to breast feed my daughter and go about my day. I know, I know – shit happens. Water heaters break and I really shouldn’t be complaining about my first-world problems, but I hate this apartment and the management so much that I just want to hurl handfuls of smelly, rotting carpet at their faces. The good news in all of this is that I thought that I had lost my journals. For some reason my pea brain didn’t remember packing, moving, and storing them all even though it was only a year ago (I blame it on pregnancy/childbirth… that’s a legit excuse, right?). Now I can read through them (despite the fact that they’re dirty and stinky) and laugh at my younger selves. I’m particularly excited to see what my life was like at 8 years old…

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