The truth is, I never left you. I’ve just been eating a lot of takeout, because my cookbooks are all packed and I threw my kitchen table away.

See, here are the things:

  • Selling a piece of real estate is the Worst Thing Ever In The Entire World. And I say that as someone who has lost both parents, had cancer and suffered from completely debilitating Major Depression that won me a week’s vacation in the psych ward. I would not wish the process of selling real estate on my worst enemy. I now understand why Donald Trump is such a fucked-up individual. You can’t spend that much time engaged in real estate transactions and come out unscathed.
  • People are really, incredibly stupid.
  • Especially lawyers.*
  • In particular, real estate attorneys. They make me want to shake a baby. I know that’s bad, but if the baby dies, that’s one less person who might grow up to be a real estate attorney. I should probably shake the lawyer instead, but it’s easier to catch a baby than a lawyer. Lawyers are slippery.
  • But not mine, thank god.

The end result of this: a stratospheric level of stress, which has caused all my words to dry up like a slug in a salt mine. My back, neck and shoulders are so tense that my head is about to pop off like an overripe cherry tomato and roll down the street, where the neighborhood feral cats will bat it around, pigeons will pick at my lifeless eyeballs and seagulls will shit on my neck stump. It will be very Greek, and very tragic.

By this time next week, I will either be (1) happily unpacking in my sweet-ass new loft; (2) dead; or (3) being held without bail for first-degree attorneycide.

To put it more tersely: Please send good juju.

*Yes, I am aware that I went to law school. But I was never admitted to the bar and have never practiced, so I’m exempt. My bar exam results have now expired, so I couldn’t be a lawyer even if I wanted to be. Which I don’t.