pipistrellafelix | Jul. 31st, 2006

Today as I was standing at 43rd on the Ave, waiting to get on my bus, my shiny new transfer blew out of my book-laden hands and away into the street. I took a couple steps after it, but I preferred losing a transfer to getting hit by a car, so I figured it was fairly useless. I thought perhaps the bus driver had seen it blow away, so it wouldn't be too big a deal. I got on the bus and read Stardust for the few extra blocks home, and when the bus reached 65th I went up to the front and said, "my transfer blew away right before I got on, but I had one...I can pay again if you want--" (though I wasn't sure if I could). He looked at me and said, "whatever. I don't care," and waved his hand at me, a get-off-the-bus motion. This should have made me pleased, right? It didn't. I wanted to cry. Not so much because I could tell he didn't believe me--I could feel self-righteous about it, because I was telling the truth--but no, more because of this sadness and frustration in his face, the utter uncaring weariness behind the one word "whatever"--not only did he not believe me, he couldn't care less if I were telling the truth or not, because so many people hadn't before. I don't know why it struck me so much. Maybe because I've been so happy lately.

I have to do a second round of apartment calling today, now that it's nearly August and people should know what's available. I suddenly realized last night what a huge responsibility got placed on my shoulders, when my three roommates left...I am slightly terrified of this whole apartment-searching process. I know what I want, but is it even possible to get it? Ack. I know I'm responsible--or I can be, when I try...I just, argh.
No more of this. I'm not going to get caught up in worrying about what might happen if I don't do things correctly. (This is good advice generally, I feel, & not just about apartments.) Off to go sound professional and desirable on the telephone to potential landlord-like people, then.