Move it or lose it, Toots.

Fuckadoodledoo.

My landlord just gave me notice.

I gotta move outta my beloved abode afore the next solstice. Four years in, I could feel this day approaching – fast and furious like the errant arse of Vin Diesel. Yessireebobtail I’ve dreaded it. Now it’s nigh and, well. I’m gutted. Just quietly.

My life is imploding with songlike synchronicity. Either that or a Phoenix cannot burn in part, if it’s to be reborn in full.

Let’s go with the latter, eh. Optimism is sanity for me right now. And whilst this is indeed spurious news (of bastard origins), I can’t help but call its timing predictably prescient. For this flat is the only true anchor I own to my soon-to-be-former life; the only habit urging me to make money enough to support it.

A man’s home is his castle, and a wuc’s abode is her equalizer. In years past, I’ve amassed art from Vietnam ‘n’ Cambodia, riches from Morocco ‘n’ Peru, and treasures from Europe’s teeming troves. Layer upon layer of connoisseur ‘n’ quirk until my home became a Wuccan cave of wonderment – a place where I could look in any direction and be visually sated. It’s the first real home I’ve had in adulthood. The first place I planted feet after years of travel and fucked up flatshares. And, like one’s first love, I have held it apart from all that went before it in delight and revelry.

Not to wax lyrical, yo. But you could say its been a dear friend, supportive and steady throughout many a harem of hardship. (A friend I paid $360 bucks a week for the privilege, but still.) As my sole sanctuary from copious compromises laden in my latent life – it has kept my candle of hope alive against wayward winds and usurping upswells. And somehow, throughout, I have managed to afford this choice champion. Just.

Slowly but surely, like the breasts of Jessica Simpson, the rent has risen biannually. And I have held on for dear life, like the boulder holder whose cups cannot stay the mounting mammilla. I lived in fear of the next inevitable increase (as I’m sure does JS) but turns out, there’s more than one way to snap the strap of the most bold of boulder holders, my friends.

Nothing for it but to suck it up and ride the realistic wave.

And so my endeavor becomes double decker: to find a new home and career within the month whilst staying the stink of inner ‘n’ outer beasts (and how many there are). Feels much like learning to walk whilst planning a Himalayan hike – ill timed yet undoubtably possible (in an after-school special kinda way).

In the kindtime, I’m (re)discovering that tackling Sydney’s housing market is akin to tackling my caustically Christian grandmo’ at the height of her regime.

The meek need not apply.

Nor need logic, for that matter.

About the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

26 Responses to “Move it or lose it, Toots.”

  1. ohh mama, mah Wuc without a restraining cave, and I do wish you hadn’t mentioned things that need straps. Gals don’t know how attraction whatever………. But all your stuff at home (storage) and I thought you would be directing movies by now!
    Sorry, I have been off, its alright I washed off the bacteria come up smelling like a rose, but your stuff, Sydney, grandma all this revealed in the torrent of your disaster para. I now I hate myself for not flying to you and building you a castle, noh!!! its true on here you really do want to help the people who make the days better with what they write – am swearing now! well I suppose you are a good teacher. I dearly sincerely hope it works out specially for someone who uses the tactic of sticking humour up its rear door to make their way.

    • Thanks CB, albeit belated! Your para’s are equally laden with the cryptic and quirk, like a farcical face off of two poets in pulpit. Always entertaining and supportive, and winding and wuccing, it’s bolstering to be tabled as a good teacher, or simply someone who sticks humour up the rear door. A valiant profession, both.

  2. Can totally relate! Looking for a new home myself! You put it all so well. Hope you are led to a new and better place where you will be peaceful and happy.

    • Thanks so much, D. There is a happy ending to each woeful tale, if you only stop the story at the right point! I hope you found a new happy home too, wherever ye may be.

  3. My poor Wookian wonder! Come to the other side of the world and move close to me–$410 a month yo! Plenty of office work here too ;)

  4. Perpetua Gnocchi Reply April 13, 2013 at 10:37

    The ole Grandma regime got me in stitches, even though I fear I, myself, could be a grey ghost of one. Hope you land on your peep-toe-shoed feet soon. Maybe even as we speak………

  5. Sorry to hear about that, yo~ I’ve had to move around quite a bit in my adult life… it ain’t fun. Good luck~

    Digging your poetry today though~~

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