divine angst

This day is just not ending well.

I called our soon-to-be new apartment to reserve the freight elevator and was told by the building manager that our unit—or the unit we signed a lease for—is not really our unit. She said she knows for a fact that resident in our unit “is definitely not moving out.” And then she told me, somewhat rudely, to call the leasing agent we worked with last month and not to bother her about reserving the freight elevetor until I know what apartment we’re living in. I have a message into the leasing agent, and, by God, if she’s known about this and just didn’t call us, there will be hell to pay. I’m not moving down five floors because of someone’s mistake—at least not without a discount on the rent.

While waiting for a phone call from our leasing agent, my phone rang. I immediately answered without looking to see who it was, because I thought it would be the leasing agent. Instead, it was an obscene caller that I’ve been dealing with off and on for the last four or so years. He’s someone I know, someone I went to high school with, and I thought he’d stopped calling after I got a message from him, apologizing for being such a f**ked up asshole. Well, apparently not. However, today, he called at the wrong damn time and I shot back as soon as I realized what was going on with, “If you call me again, I’m calling the cops. I know where to find you.” Because I do. He hung up.

Also? It’s thundering outside, pouring rain, and yet still hotter than hell. I just want to go curl up into a little ball in the backseat of my car and have a good little cry because I’m so angry and frustrated and feeling so helpless. But I have work to do. For 16 more days and 45 more minutes.