I have been always the unofficial hobo. I have moved over 8x times in 10 years. All of my life has been living out of a suitcase with moments of temporary stability. I always felt like I never belonged anywhere. When I was in middle school I hated where I lived. I didn’t understand the concept of a house but I knew cutting across the basketball court through a manmade hole in a gate wasn’t it just to get to my building. After a family argument that nowhere involved me but effected me directly, I got shipped to the bronx where I hated the 10 block hike to the train everyday. The Bronx is the step-child boro and everyday I felt like the black swan. A heated family blowout and one craiglist click led me across the water to Staten Island in some random basement apartment. I honestly couldn’t tell you how I functioned for that month but all I had was a duffle bag and my dog. Sunset gave me the first taste of what Brooklyn had to offer. A worn down brownstone 2-bedroom apartment that did not resemble anything from She’s got to have it. My ex-boyfriend and I argued and argued until I made the executive decision to pull the plug on everything. Another click on craigslist, I found a random stranger and mut plus an apartment in the heart of Flatbush. Oh how I miss the shrimp roti and steel drums outside my door during labor day weekend. The bedbug epidemic and a un-commutative roommate left me back on my ass in the bronx since my grandmothers apartment was experiencing the same shit I was going through in Brooklyn. With unresolved issues and hurt pride I resided until I found a gem in Long Island. With unresolved issues needed to be resolved I gave up Long Island to deal with the family bullshit. (Doctor’s appointments and court cases that ain’t mine – ain’t that bout a bitch) With jealously comes bullshit and getting kicked out while on vacation will always be the cream of the crop when it comes to shit I can’t make up. (At least I saw the beach before the bullshit- Kanye Shrug) Another kick to the self-esteem left me in storage and living my boyfriends family house. Another me before he situation, and several clicks on craigslist left me in a random room with two adults acting like college kids and two dogs.
When temporary runs out, it’s time to figure it out. New York is not built for the single black women in her 30’s trying to figure it all out. High real estate prices, credit checks, bank statements requirements, I’m tired. My homegirl suggested no rather implied “Bitch bring your ass to Jersey!” A few clicks I honestly couldn’t tell you which website this time, a broker reached out and the deal was done. Still in the metro area, far enough away from the bullshit I finally feel like an adult. The survival mode can be switched off even though I honestly don’t even know how to flip the switch. Somewhere in the sea of boxes and packing tape, I barely can find my dog in the apartment when I come home. I have to get the house together because I’m tired of her sleeping on my damn Louis Vuitton coffee table book and it’s only been two days. (Common sense would say move it but to where a bin or a box?)
The beginning of a new era, as I take off price stickers to dishes I never ate on but paid for in storage for years. The amount of fake love in my DM’s are entertaining ? The private messages of Oh, you shoulda let me know you was moving, I woulda helped fake bullshit. Save it for another person – let’s be real here. Was you really gonna throw on sweatpants and get dirty moving boxes in storage? Are you really gonna send the toaster oven I want? Are you really gonna assist with the first food shop? No, No, and No.