I hear its siren song in my sleep.

I feel like flying.
To Namibia?
Paris.
Always Paris.
I have never been and yet I hear its siren song.
It calls to me but my own reply is lost in the distance between us.

Finding a flat is proving more difficult than I originally though.
I underestimated the price of a good flat.
All I need is a 1 bedroom flat for a couple, a grandpa cat and biking distance from class.
I would have to add $50-100 more each week to the existing rent budget.
I don’t want another flat mate.
With the flat, it is my job to make it pretty and J’s job to keep it clean.
He is very good at cleaning, far better than me.
I, as my mother has said before, am shocking at cleaning.
I just want to unpack all of the boxes.
I don’t want to yield to someone else when it comes to the placement of things.
J is the exception but I rarely yield to him in that aspect.

I find that if I worry about that, then there is no room left to worry about what they will or won’t find in the surgical procedure. It is next week.
I am more terrified that they won’t find anything than if they do.

J has gone back to Napier.
He has work to do.
I miss him already.
Speaking of him, that damn man has put me on a budget.
I am useless with money, it flows through my fingers like water.
I have no idea where it goes but only the fact that it is gone.
If I want something then I buy it.
If I have enough money then I’ll buy it then and there.

I spent a long time controlling myself.
Rigid self-control.
It is nice to be free.
But alas, being ‘free’ won’t get me a flat nor will it get me to Paris.

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