How to move to NYC in three weeks and with a great deal of terror


Three months ago, I decided I should probably move. To Chicago.

Why moving? Because I work from home and I could. And because I only ever stayed in Atlanta for scholarship money and my mother’s illness and my own grief and a relationship that then ended. And because the longer I stayed there the more I could feel my sense of self blowing away in the gentle breeze. And I kept crying in therapy when I talked about the future.

I wasn’t in a good place, let’s say.

Why Chicago? It has improv. I have friends who live there. I like the Field Museum. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

So, it comes as something of a shock to find myself writing this from a currently internet-less but otherwise lovely one bedroom in Brooklyn.

It turns out it is in fact totally possible to go from “I should live in Chicago” to “oh shit I actually live in Brooklyn now” in about three weeks.

Step 1: During an all-hands meeting in New York, the physical location of your weird internet job that you’ve given up explaining to people, mention again to your boss that you’re moving to Chicago. Realize that he didn’t hear you the first time that you told him because he was also in the middle of moving and you maybe didn’t tell him so much as mention it on twitter. Boss points out that you could move to New York, where you actually work. Realize that work includes catered lunch.

Get really drunk with coworkers. Ask them if you should come live in New York. Choose to believe them when they say yes and then ask some really nosy questions about rent and online dating.

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Spring has sprung


Image courtesy of Dean Ward. Licensed under CC BY 2.0.

This unceasing shitshow of a winter is finally, finally over. Y’all, I knew going into this year that it was going to be the Worst, but my issues managed to dovetail quite nicely with a winter that just Would Not Quit. It was like the MRSA of weather, teasing us with the potential of spring every Saturday only to be cold and grey and miserable the rest of the week. And it went on like a freshman comp student who doesn’t understand that maximum page limits exist for a reason.

Spring has sprung, and my fellow residents of the Ent city are ecstatic. Piedmont Park is full of families with lawn chairs and picnic baskets, Grant Park has bikers on their way to the farmer’s market, everyone’s patios are finally opened and I can only imagine that no one in Cabbagetown will leave their porches for the next three months. Driving through Midtown today, I saw two cute young dudes (one in a belly shirt and skinny jeans, the other sporting a v-neck and shorts) recognize each other from across the street—one ran and no-shit leapt into the others arms, and he carried the dude into Blake’s.

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Cats, Vampires, and Occupation

So it turns out that my readership is apparently attuned to my moods. Within a few hours of posting Movement Boredom, I had

  • Encouragement from my grandmother to go hem some curtains.
  • An offer from my mother to amuse myself at the house.
  • A friend offering to bring over board games. Which, impressive. (One was French Revolution themed! The other involved the Italian perception of the Wild West and was correspondingly insane!

So I can safely say that I have lovely friends and family and should never, ever complain about being bored on the internet again.

And I’m not! Because now my apartment has a) my roommate, who I walked in on listening to Chameleon Circuit the first night she was in the apartment, and b) my roommate’s cat, who is basically an (adorably needy) mop-shaped animal. I want her to be best friends with me. So far, she insists on hiding under the couch while I read, but I foresee the growth of a beautiful friendship.

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Movement Boredom

The great movening of 2012 is finally finished. (Huzzah!) With the exception of internet access in the apartment, my humble new abode officially has all a girl could dream of, apartment-wise. So that’s very exciting. Blood pressure is back down to normal levels, and I plan to spend the rest of my next internetlss week alternately lounging in the apartment, drinking beer on my porch (I have a porch!), and frantically walking to the nearby library when the internet DTs hit. Ah, vacation.

Now that I’m not worried about the move, however, I am forced to acknowledge that I actually do not have that many hobbies. Yesterday morning, finding myself without plans, I spent most of the morning taking naps just to eat up time.

Basically, I need access to Netflix, stat. We don’t want a rehash of the electric skateboard boredom/sadness purchase of 2010*, do we? I think not.

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I’m ISPicky

As you may or may not know, I’m moving out of my parents’ house on Wednesday. And, though terrifying in that “oh god now I have to pay power bills” kind of way, it’s going pretty well. Once I buy renter’s insurance later today, I’ll be all set to get my keys. Yay!

Since the essentials are taken care of, I thought I’d move on to things that–though not necessary to move in–make apartment living nicer. I settled on getting the apartment’s wifi set up.

This was a horrible decision. Unlike the other utilities with their beautiful government-enforced monopolies, there are many options for selecting your ISP. Except it’s a trick, because all of them are terrible.

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Coping Mechanisms

It has been an anxious week.

There’s nothing bad happening. I just am overcome–as frequently happens, particularly when my mind isn’t occupied with school and three jobs–with a creeping sense of existential dread. I blame my impending move to a new apartment. It’s the first time I’ve been in non-campus housing, and the idea that I might actually have to set up my utilities is causing me to stare feebly, sadly into space.

It’s not that I can’t do it. I am aware that, objectively, calling Georgia power is Not That Hard. It’s just that sometimes things seem to be a Bit Much on the adulthood front, and then I stick my head in the sand and spend another six hours looking at dog photos. As you do.

But eventually I run out of adoptable, house-trained, under-40-pound dogs to look at on the internet. And then I revert to my secondary, far less healthy coping mechanism.

My name is Emily, and I am freaking myself out by searching on LinkedIn.

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