Wish I Had A Window

The subject line of this post is designed to be sung to the song "If I Were a Rich Girl" or "If I Were a Rich Man" by Gwen Stefani and from Fiddler on the Roof respectively. Followed by 'lalalalalalalalalalalalalala' - yes, I counted, and it is the exact number of 'la's!
Why do I wish I had a window? My bedroom in Brunswick has the tiniest of pathetic windows, just big enough for me to fit through and it faces up at the sky. Boring. It's so tiny and exposed that I have the shutter drawn always, otherwise I just get this blinding beam of white light falling through.
When I lived in my favourite house in Caroline Street, I had a wall of windows. Literally. One entire wall was full-length windows that opened up onto a courtyard filled with roses, lavendar and a nice shady tree in the middle. It was beautiful; the wind would drift in carrying the scent of flowers and summer, lifting my sheer white curtains and just filling my room with 'happy'. Because I had so much window space, I took to using one of them as a whiteboard - I'd write and drawing over the window with red lipstick which cast the most intriguing shadows of backwards words on my bed. Unfortunately since then, I have moved twice and am now facing the worst window situation ever. Tiny window facing the morning sun and nothing else, a view of all the corrugated iron and cement roofs in Brunswick and the smell of traffic and industry wafting into my humble abode. Ick.

Right now, I'm at my Dad's apartment in Richmond, overlooking the river. It's glorious.. I feel like I'm living in a treehouse. Huge windows on every external wall, trees and birds and flowers everywhere to be seen, sunshine and fresh air streaming into the house through open windows. I feel ridiculously unwell, but it's nice to be surrounded by something so nice.

Over the next couple of months, I'm apartment-hunting. The House of Mirth is good fun to write about, but unbearable. I simply can't handle it. I can't handle the XBox being on so loud until all hours of the night. I can't handle listening to Raj having loud sex every single night. I can't handle the Neanderthal, full stop. I can't handle the fact that whenever I buy food, someone eats it or throws it out. I can't handle the lack of space. I can't handle being kicked out of my own living room whenever Karin and Clarke decide to be space-sucking lumps. I can't handle the greasy dishes that just get put back into the cupboard. I can't handle idiots who don't know how to answer the intercom or the phone, making me run from the other end of the house in my underwear for it when they were in the same room. I can't handle the way they eat like loud, obnoxious pigs.. it makes me feel ill. I can't handle being picked on for being a girl, liking pink, not being a goth, being a 'jaffie' (college freshman), etc etc.
I've had enough, so I'm moving out.

I think my Mom is giving me a white dinner set as a birthday present, and my Aunt already sent down boxes and boxes of kitchen utensils she doesn't need anymore. It's kind of funny - she's a millionaire and has far too much stuff, but did she really think that I needed 24 champagne flutes? Oh well, I'm amused but I won't complain.

Nothing has yet been written about the birthday, I'll write it up as a story/fairy tale for next time. I'm feverish and coughing up a lung right now, so I'll get back to bed. Adios amigos.