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Okay picture this : I'm cheerfully pacing up a few flights. I've got my keys singing in unison with my Docs hitting the creaky wooden steps. I put the silver skeleton into the large gold padlock and turn the semi-sticky knob to unlock my heavy pre-war door. I'll shout "honey I'm homeeee" and then make eye contact with myself in the nearest mirror to say "oh thank goodness, I've missed you". I'm giggling to myself, but also short of breath because after all, I'm coming from an elevator building. I'm home after a double shift. I'm happy.

I'm happy because I found it; I've found my home. And it's glorious! She's stunning. I have an original brick fireplace in the living space; I have a separate kitchen with space above the cabinets for my many ceramic pitchers and knickknacks. I have a sleeper loft in the living room for bean bags and my friends to hang. And the bedroom area has a bay window, being on the third floor of a brownstone. I have so much space for all of my current candles...and all the other trinkets that I have yet to acquire. Hozier and Amy Winehouse's voices will bounce off the soon-to-be-covered white walls while I nail up the second-hand gallery wall of my dreams.

I have one tiny closet in the whole place but that doesn't bother me. I didn't have a closet at all in my Hell's Kitchen abode. It's a small upgrade and not to be overlooked. Unlike Hell's Kitchen, I don't have an all-white bathroom. I have a pink bathroom - from the tiles to the tub to the toilet. It's screaming 1956. It's dated, and made popular by Mamie Eisenhower, but it's exactly what I wanted. I have parquet floors and that's a dream for me. I can picture future moments of sliding around in fuzzy socks and belting whatever version of Stick Season Noah Kahan releases next. I can picture all my friends' shoes lined up on the unique patterned wood by the door.

I am moving into paradise and just in the nick of time. I found the lil gem right after Opening Bash and now the shack is all mine for $250 less than I had originally budgeted.

Now wouldn't that be ideal? But here's the catch. Opening Bash is in the future. NYC Craft Beer Week's biggest event is Saturday, February 24th. I've bullsh*tted this blog to be a manifestation of sorts. I'm lighting my ritual candles for Papa Legba, having my mother say her Hail Mary's, and adding cinnamon to anything I can get my hands on. I believe in divine timing. But, I also believe in free will as a catalyst to whatever The Universe might have planned. So this blog is my plea to the powers that be - enjoy my jokes and laugh at my self-fulfilling skin-of-my-teeth lifestyle, but please let that perfect and charming 500ish square feet of the Upper West Side fall into my ever-so-grateful lap.

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