It has rained literally ALL WEEKEND.

Dad was happy to help me take the truck up to the Northside yesterday to haul the lady’s stuff away, but we had to bring tarps and bungee cords and it was nuts. Like a game of Tetris but with none of the cute sound effects and substantially higher stakes.

I was able to have a look at most of the larger pieces while we were still over at the woman’s house and ultimately decided to put them all temporarily in my parents’ garage so I could try to refinish them a bit. Some of them really were scratched to hell.

The roll-top desk was everything I dreamed it would be, however.

Three hours later and we had everything safely arranged at our destination. The first order of business was admiring the desk, naturally - the roll-top portion was jammed shut so we had to figure out how to pry it open without damaging the little wooden pieces, BUT THEN..

..we found a whole ass typewriter inside. I’m assuming the lady didn’t know it was there because she never mentioned it.

The baby writer inside me squeaked audibly when we found it. There’s no way it works, but the thing is GORGEOUS - Underwood brand with golden lettering and nearly all of its keys intact.

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Mom saw it and immediately offered to have it fixed up to see if we could get it working (she must have noticed the way my eyes bugged out of my head). This, we agreed, would be my birthday present.

It’s been around twenty-four hours since and I’m still thinking about that damn typewriter. Honestly, it’s been nice to have something genuinely pleasant to think about instead of everything else that has been going on.

The anxiety has been exhausting. Even without the current global crisis (so much for lasting two weeks), I keep worrying that I’ll run into…certain people on my way to my car or the mailboxes or something. Why? I’m not sure. It’s not like they will lunge at me and try to assert dominance by tearing out my jugular.

At most, they’d probably shoot me a smug little side-eye, which…is arguably worse.

And then there is the overwhelming feeling of failure that passes over me every time I look around at my empty apartment or remember that I’m single again. That I was broken up with by someone I loved.

I’ve been trying to just compartmentalize because if I don’t, I start fixating on trying to find someone to blame. The easy choice would be Kristen (former neighbor) since she was ostensibly the catalyst for this emotional shitstorm, but that…kind of isn’t fair.

I dunno. I’ll think about it later.