Despite my feeling like I'm living in elapsed time, the last few weeks have gone by as smoothly as an unperturbed sliding closet door. So I went and did what comes naturally to me - I put a bunch of paper clips and small, flexible footwear in the metaphorical closet track. You know, to keep things interesting.

I decided to move.

The dreaded letter from my apartment management company came a few months ago. I learned that as of July, my rent would be increased, or "jacked up astronomically," to the cost of your average kidney transplant. I started thinking about whether or not I could afford it, and then whether or not I even wanted to.

My friend, Julia, has a great place in Brooklyn. My interior design paradigm shifted when I saw it, as did my borough snobbery. Then I got back to Manhattan and remembered, "I never dreamed of moving to Brooklyn when I made the informed decision to move here at 13." (I also thought Ryder Strong was hot stuff then, too, so this thought is completely invalid. Brooklyn's great).

And moving is a bitch. I'm currently on the first floor of my apartment building, so that's one obstacle out of the way. But I have stuff, lots of it. You move into a place and you need stuff. And then stuff for your stuff. Before you know it, you've acquired a complex lineage of office supplies and back issues of magazines. All that stuff has to get moved out - whether you're facing a six-step stoop or a three flights. That's my exact burden from the current to the new place, respectively.

Moving is also expensive, and you don't even get to accidentally tear shit up for free. You've got a security deposit you'll want back next time you move. Because you will move again. Probably to a smaller space or a bigger one with more structural woes. My landlord goes by the name Murphy, I think.

Some people are lucky. They have relatives who are wealthy and often senile. Others just stumble across great finds, like the urban legend involving an NYU student and free accommodations, provided that she Swiffer once a fortnight in her skivvies. How does one get that gig? I perform the same service for my neighbors pro bono.

I thought all these things through and resolved to stay put, especially after I told one person I was considering relocation to Brooklyn and she needed to be hospitalized. I have a studio on Central Park West, one of the most coveted addresses around. Never mind that cockroaches cruise in on lowriders in the summer and the closest grocery store sells fresh fruit for $5.25 a pound. That's how it be on the West Side, boyeeeee!

Last Friday creaked by - still smooth as sliding closet doors and all, but slow. I checked some apartment listings and found it: a one-bedroom apartment in my area for less than what I'll be paying under my new lease.

A one-bedroom! In Manhattan right by Central Park! That I can afford! Maybe I am one of the lucky ones. I certainly have a Swiffer and some skivvies.

I toured the apartment Friday afternoon, sopping wet with a broken umbrella. The broker took the weekend off, so this morning, before any other hopefuls got a chance to look for reasons why the place is so below market value (infestation, sex trafficking set-up, shared quarters with angry spirits, or just plain lies), I snatched it up. It's mine. And so is all this stuff. Shit!

At the time I am blogging this, I have already experienced 3.4 meltdowns triggered by the impending move. I've considered donating everything I own to charity and checking myself into an institution. Sadly, I can't afford either of those options.

But really, I think I'm going to do this, and I will try not to cry and beat my head against a park bench while dressed only in bubble wrap. This time.