Merging with my eardrum is my new favorite song (BRONCHO – Class Historian). It makes me so ridiculously happy it is beyond silly. I concur: 
’til now I’m doing great
doing well is pretty vague
Happiness is currently in short supply. A few days ago as I was head over heels in the mental mood of selecting the color schemes for my little attic shoebox, I was informed that the apartment was “no longer for rent”. My heart resting somewhere in between the head and the heels, came hurling down. 
“It is destiny” echoed like a wise scholar, claiming that I would never have survived without the perceived freedom offered by a balcony. My father encouragingly went on the “it’ll be okay”-track, adding that incredible smile he always resorts to when he knows I am less-than-perfect. My mother told me to pray. Indeed I welcome a miracle. 
While waiting for the sweet manna from heaven, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I figured that “if you want something in life, reach out and grab it” (unless it is berries, then use caution). Let me fill you in. For a couple of weeks I have had my eye on this little, rundown cuteness-overload house. The top floor – the amazing floor – was looking completely abandoned. In my inner fantasy world it had my name written all over it, now more so than ever. In some wild hope that this could be my big break, my miracle (disappointment being a great feeder of preposterous ideas), I took the time to write a cute little trilingual (English, Italian, German) renting-request, rolled it up nicely and placed it in the gate. Laughing in some nervous hysteria at the idiotic genius of the idea, I am more than mildly disappointed that it has not yet bore any fruits.
Leaving my delusions alone for a second, I started once again the apartment hunting. Earlier today I visited two apartments of varied quality, at “rather-punch-me-in-the-face” prices and styles that might not really suit my personal flair. In the first we were greeted by “una mujer al borde de un ataque de nervios”. The speed of her South Tyrolean German left me completely confounded over the problems with the bed, the plates and the basement… The relevance to me, deludes me still. I made it my business to run away as quickly as common politeness allowed. The second place had potential – 1960’s potential. A bit depressing was the (no denying the) grandeur view of the kitchen: a leftover Mussolini monument of a building. Being more of a “hobbit” as put it, I would have preferred a less spectacular scene containing a few trees and possibly a bakery. 
Tomorrow morning I have a visit to a little burrow apartment down in the old town. Despite little information, my desperation keeps the expectations and the mood momentarily mountain high. Mercy me, oh mighty miracle maker. 

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