There are no cats in America.

Sleep is such an elusive animal. I saw one outside the window of the F streetcar on my way home yesterday, but it got startled and scampered down a dark alley like a mouse that sings like Fievel.

My lucid consciousness is fleeting. The last thing I remember doing was sitting in a meeting about project proposals with my superior who is not my boss. I had no idea what he was talking about because I’m easily distracted, which is exacerbated by the fact that said superior looks exactly like a gay version of the lead singer of the Killers. Every time I look at him, a gospel chorus of gay choir boys singing Mr. Brightside plays in my head (with my superior at the forefront) and it takes almost everything in me to keep from laughing.

This is what happens when you are a semi-permanent apartment dweller. I have one foot (more like the tip of my toe) in my studio apartment in Union City and another in my boyfriend’s apartment in the city. Where will I be sleeping in a month? In a week? Tomorrow? I’m like the dry-erase marker of urban denizens.

I took the apartment in Union City because my company said we’d be in Fremont for a few months before moving offices to San Francisco, but by a few months they meant one month and by one month they meant now. So the 3-month lease I thought was a logical solution is now an unnecessary burden on my wallet and is the latest obstacle I have in finding a permanent dwelling place.

I am homeless without being homeless. Bah humbug.

(But life could be worse, so I’m really complaining about nothing).