It could be worse…

I have heard the phrase “it could be worse” too many times to count in the last few months. First, a breakup. Then surgery. Then credit card debt. Then the landlord is suing. Then the IRS wants its money now. Then trying to find a new place to live. Then packing and moving and the ex is not around to help.Then moving day.

Oh my G-d, everything is going smoothly… Too smoothly. And then, the person I’m moving in with — who is subletting the place illegally from the coop’s owner — has not secured the permit necessary for me to move in! My belongings sit on an idle pod (people move with pods now) in the parking lot of a 60’s-era low- to medium-income cooperative housing development that feels like Soviet-era Russia.  

Soviet Apartment Block





Do Not Blab


Security guards surround the moving truck KGB-style, though they’re jabbering in Spanish, not Russian like the KGB or, ironically, like my movers, and just stare at me like I’m the enemy of the people, just daring me to move a single possession out of my pod.



So I have the movers re-load the pod and send the moving van to Long Island, to my mother’s house. Now all of most of my boxed stuff (and this was my step-father’s request) is confined to a 3 by 15 square tile area on the basement floor. The rest of my stuff is in the garage and they’ve already made plans to rid the garage of that small line of boxes by exiling them to the neighbor’s unused garage. So here’s the point: Every single one of the above-mentioned trauma’s have caused my friends and family to tell me “it could be worse…”

Well folks, it can and it does get worse. So do me a favor and don’t tell me it could be worse! Here I sit, in the suburbs and I’m not happy. In fact, I’m downright depressed and probably having a nervous breakdown.

And my biggest fear, at this moment, is that it could be worse.


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