I can’t even think of a damn title!

I do not know what to do. Seriously.

I am frightened, angry and frustrated in trying to secure housing, which MUST be done by Saturday morning. It’s been nearly three weeks of very intense and consistent efforts.

Better to ask God to move the mountain than find a place to live in Denver!

Last night and again this morning I called the woman with the tiny room to check on the status. I’ve not heard back yet.

I thumbed through my notebook pages filled with names and leads as well as saved phone messages accumulated over the weeks and reached out to old possibilities.

0.

+ + +

Such began this morning’s post.

Fortunately the Red Cross for the wallet has just arrived.

Colleen, the woman with the little room, called to say that the woman after me who was scheduled to view the room was a no-show.

Surprise surprise. {fatigued sarcasm}

Thus the room remains available.

Thus I’m in the position of taking it. I’m not elated. However, it is the only door that has opened.

Which means I must go through. I move out of the motel Saturday, three weeks to the day after arriving.

The hardest part is over for the moment.

I’ll continue the home search — after a few months of respite from craigslist.

+ + +

Now attention turns to finding a bed (being that I arrived with no furniture, only boxes).

That hunt’s been underway via craigslist — the search for both budget beds and free beds. No one offering the latter has responded.

What do you think the odds of responses are when I place an ad offering small payment to someone with a truck to help move the bed when that time comes?!?

Too often the world seems like one giant rush when people have something to gain for themselves but when it’s time to step forward to help others in need, ZZZZzzzzzzzz.

I’m venting from fatigue.

Were that I enjoying this struggle more. I’m not.

I’m exhausted … burnt out … put off by the Denver housing market and frustrated and feeling terribly unsupported at the moment.

+ + +

The infected molar is screaming for a root canal and causing constant pain and distraction. I can just feeeeeel the infection gnawing away at the bone and the tooth shouting: “Help me! help me! Fix me! I’m sick! I’m dying! Treat me!!”

But I cannot.

And as of yesterday, another gold crown, one of the many populating my mouth, has developed holes.

Which means that crown must be replaced.

And I’m in no position to get either tooth treated any time soon.

I just want to lay myself down and cry.

+ + +

The job hunt — squeezed in with the more urgent and consuming search for housing — is not going terribly well, neither terribly badly.

I was approached about an interview today. I responded with a couple questions. Then never heard back.

I followed up on a temp agency (that interview/paperwork last week) that’s beefing up specifically its pool of proofreaders.

Nothing yet — though she did thank me for checking in.

+ + +

Without question, the worst of it, what’s bringing to bear this enormous and exhausting stress and burden, is Denver craigslisters’ unresponsiveness.

A diseased tooth is not helping. It shifts perceptions. Nothing feels good when pain and disease take center stage, becoming the cloudy lens that turns green grass to a fuzzy washed-out gray-green.

I KNOW how improved would be body and emotional and psychological health and outlook if this molar could be treated.

And now there’s the cracked crown, which is an open door to caries, which left untreated develop into … never mind.

And oh yeah, the brakes on the car have begun squeaking. Time for new brake pads. That and the malfunctioning fuel gauge.

Can’t do a damn thing about them either.

No repairs of teeth or anything else can occur until I’m working and by that I mean, {hear me} Universe, a job that’s above the minimum wage.

Sometimes you’ve gotta write and speak emphatically for a chance of being heard.

+ + +

In sum, I didn’t bring much in terms of possessions from Tacoma.

What I DID bring, unbeknownst and as is being discovered, is an invisible bag that snuck itself into the load.

A bag of hardships and struggles and extreme financial duress.

I got nuthin’ more I want to say except that some anesthesia in the form of a bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey would sure fix some of these ailments, temporarily.

None to be found!

Nine liquor stores I’ve checked! Nada. Lucky to find any rye whiskey at all and the one time I did (god only knows which store that was!) it was … Wild Turkey? Jack Daniels? … don’t matter, it’s moot (didn’t care for it).

+ + +

P.S. the future roommate requested a $200 deposit that I wasn’t told was part of the deal. How I’m gonna come up with that kinda cash amongst this crashing I dunno.

I got nuthin’ more to say except god spare me and show me that bottle of Old Overholt rye!

I’m done.

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